


her eyes make the stars look like they're not shining

by reliquiaen



Category: A Plague Tale: Innocence (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, and a handful of extras to pad out the cast, and also laurentius is there, plus beatrice and robert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 19:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 138,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reliquiaen/pseuds/reliquiaen
Summary: Mélie’s lips arch up in something that says, ‘oh I’m nice, am I? says who?’ and it’s… it’s sure something. “I don’t know you,” she says softly around that smirk. “So, I guess you met my brother.”Lucas’ eyes widen. “There are two?”And that’s how Amicia meets Arthur.pats fic, this baby can fit all five major food groups guys: mutual pining, bed sharing, omg they were roommates, friends to lovers, and found family. with bonus food group: HUGO





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: i'm gonna write a cute little childhood-friends to lovers fic.  
the fic: you certainly will NOT be writing a LITTLE anything  
and that's how i spent two months writing this. oops.
> 
> disclaimer: i know exactly nothing about the french education system so it's probably a godawful concoction of french terms and australianisms bc that's the only point of reference i have and any time i googled stuff to help me out i got results in all french. i don't read french. hope it's not too much of an annoyance for anyone out there reading this who has first hand experience with the french school system: i am SO sorry.

_i feel it deep inside_

_when i look into your eyes_

_it's written in the stars_

_i'll be your queen of hearts_

Amicia meets Lucas Buisson in CE2. She’s eight, but he’s only seven and it confuses her so much she asks him why. Why is he younger? How did he get to be in this grade? Where did he come from?

Lucas is a little weird, but she likes him well enough. And he answers all her questions exactly as they’re asked. He’s younger because he’s smarter than other kids his age and his teachers wanted him to move up a stage. He’s from out of town, a little place he can’t say the name of, but he moved to Bordeaux to live with his grandfather when his parents went away and didn’t come back.

(It’s several more years before she learns his mother died of cancer and his father couldn’t cope and drank himself into oblivion. Lucas was probably lucky he was only six when this happened, honestly.)

“So you’re new at school?” Amicia asks him ten minutes after meeting him in the back corner of the playground. He looks like he’s trying to hide from everyone, and she doesn’t know why.

“Yes.” Lucas peers over her shoulder to where other kids are. “I’m not good at talking.”

She flops down beside him and cracks open her lunchbox. “That’s okay. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Just like that, they’re fast friends.

\--

Most of her memories from when she was little are spotty in that hazy way of all childish recollections; painted warm and sepia by fondness and time. Her father sometimes recounts things she did and Amicia will go red with mortification at hearing she really _did that_.

The only thing she’s ever known for certain is that Lucas has _always_ been there for her.

\--

Lucas’ grandfather is a wizened old man who makes home remedies and the first time Amicia meets him she asks, “Are you a witch?” and he laughs so loudly his entire thin frame shakes and he has to sit down.

“Yes, my dear. I surely am.” He smiles at her like her father sometimes does and his face crinkles up around his eyes.

He makes tea and tells her it’s a magic potion. She believes him.

Even years later, Amicia is still a little convinced that tea is magic.

\--

Nearly every weekend before they turn ten, Lucas spends Friday nights at her place. Amicia’s parents play board games with her and get very excited and let her eat too many lollies. Lucas loves it and her parents love him.

He picks up chess faster than Amicia ever did and Beatrice is smitten with him. If not for baby Hugo and Laurentius being his legal guardian, Amicia thinks she might adopt him. (Not that she knows about adoption at the time, she _does_ know that her dad jokes about kidnapping the poor boy and that’s the same thing to a nine-year-old.)

\--

In CM2 there’s this girl.

She’s taller than most, hit a growth spurt over the holidays and now she’s all stretched out. She has this lovely dark skin and thick hair and big brown eyes. Her name is Linette.

Something about her (and her friends, by extension) has changed over the summer and now there’s less honest twinkle in her smile and something sharper has taken its place.

Amicia has always thought of most of her classmates as nice. But then Linette says, “You think she’ll ever really like you?” to Lucas one afternoon while they wait at the school gate for their parents.

She turns to them in time to hear Lucas reply, “Amicia is my best friend. Of course she likes me.” But there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, even after several years.

Linette tosses her hair. “My sister says no girl wants to date a nerd.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Lucas mumbles.

“Sure you don’t.” And she laughs when she walks away, tittering with her friends.

Lucas looks up at her and she walks over slowly, not sure why she feels so awful about what just happened. “We…” he hesitates, looks over the twisted wire fence to the parking lot where parents are scooping kids up into arms and cars. “We _are_ friends, right, Amicia?”

She smiles at him, holds out a hand. He doesn’t like hugs usually, but fist bumps are something her dad taught her and Lucas is good at those. “Yes, Lucas. We’re _best_ friends.”

He bops their knuckles together and smiles.

They don’t talk to Linette again after that.

\--

By the time Amicia has turned eleven, the classes for next year are explained to her. When they move into la sixième she might have lessons with people who _aren’t _Lucas and she’s realised that it’s possible they won’t be together for every class and the idea terrifies her. And as they get older, move through middle and high school, it’ll be worse, they may not see each other at all during the day.

“We’ll still be best friends, won’t we?” Lucas asks her one night while they sit on his lounge chair and watch reruns of some old sci-fi show. His voice is small, fragile in the flickering evening and his face looks wan lit only by the light from the screen.

She takes his hand. “Of course. And we’ll hang out at lunch.”

“And you’ll keep coming to visit, right?”

“Yes!”

A door clicks behind them and they both start, but it’s just Laurentius with a blanket. “Or,” he says, draping the thick fabric across both of them, “you might have to try and make _new_ friends.” He’s smiling, gentle, kind, aware that neither of them particularly likes that idea.

At some point in the preceding years, talking to other kids their age became strained. They were all interested in other things, while Amicia and Lucas would still rather spend their lunch times in the library or sitting quietly in the garden. Lucas laughs a little at his grandfather, not unkindly, but as if he’s made a great joke.

“You never know,” Laurentius adds, “you might find some like-minded kids if you look. Be open to it.” He bends over the back of the sofa to kiss Lucas on top of his head and lay a hand briefly on Amicia’s hair. “Don’t sit up too late,” he says before shuffling back down the hallway.

They exchange smiles and burrow deeper under the blanket before going back to watching their show.

Amicia’s eyelids are drooping and she stifles a yawn so she nearly misses when Lucas whispers, “Do you think we can make more friends, Amicia?”

She hums. “I guess. Anything’s possible, right?”

“I hope so.”

\--

The first day of la cinquième is scary.

All the students are sorted out into their house groups, which up until this point have been more or less decorative. Sure, house groups compete against each other during sports festivals and stuff like that, but now they’re in house _form_.

Amicia’s form room has an orange door on the bottom floor of one building. It’s cool outside the room, a high stone retaining wall runs along the path and it’s shaded by the balcony of the upstairs rooms. It feels like being in a leaky castle during a rainstorm.

She doesn’t know anyone in the room with her. The form group for Harpyia contains several new students, too, since this is the perfect year for kids to be shuffled into new schools. Their teacher sits them in alphabetical order, in pairs at desks that seat two, all desks separated from their neighbours by a little gap. He stumbles over Amicia’s surname, not sure whether to put her with the Ds or the Rs. He settles for the Ds and seats her next to a girl called Cecile Cloutier.

“Hi,” Cecile says. “Guess we’ll be form buddies!”

“I guess so,” Amicia replies, softly, warily. Cecile has a broad smile and open eyes, she doesn’t seem mean. But neither had Linette.

“Amicia,” their teacher says, and she looks up, a little scared at being called upon already. “Cecile is new to our school, so please be kind and show her around at lunch time, alright?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

As it turns out, Amicia has been unofficially assigned as Cecile’s helper. When they receive their timetables (the first such thing Amicia has ever actually had to worry about before), she notices that Cecile’s is the same. All the same classes and rooms numbers.

“Looks like I’ll be showing you where all the classrooms are too,” Amicia tells her, setting their timetables next to each other so she can see.

“Nice!”

Maybe Laurentius had been right: they will make new friends. She hopes Lucas is having similar friendly encounters in his form room two doors down. Hopes also that they’ll have some classes together.

\--

After all the orientation nonsense they do in form room, they are shooed from the class and up the stairs towards their first lesson. They have to walk to all their different classes now, have different teachers for each, and this one – the science teacher – sits them alphabetically too. Amicia wonders if they’ll be seated like this in every class.

Once again, Cecile is on one side, but the science room is laid out in long rows of benches with tall stools, so she has someone on her other side this time too. Another girl, with red hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and an expression Amicia hesitantly interprets as equal parts bored and grumpy. The way she wears her uniform is… frumpy. Like she doesn’t really care for dress codes; top button undone, collar popped, tie loose around her neck. She looks around at Amicia after a moment and smiles, but it’s not the same smile Cecile gave her earlier, this one is crooked, it touches her eyes in a strange, sharp way. Not mean like Linette’s smiles were, something different again.

This teacher, like their form teacher, takes a roll call, and that’s how Amicia learns this girl’s name is Mélie Dubois.

“Normally,” the teacher begins, scribbling something on the whiteboard in a hand that might as well be hieroglyphics for all Amicia can read, “in this class we’ll be doing pair work. But for this first task, to get you familiarised with the lab and processes, you’ll be in groups of four.” She turns back around and uses her hand held directly out in front of her, palm to the side, to make slashes through the air and divide them up into groups.

Luckily, Amicia and Cecile are in a group together. She decides to withhold judgement on how she feels having Mélie in her group and there’s also a boy who introduces himself as Noam sitting on Cecile’s other side.

The teacher walks them through scientific methods and expects them to copy down all the notes and formatting ready for their experiment. Mélie is the only one in their group who seems reluctant to do the writing, preferring to flip her pen across her knuckles instead or doodle weird shapes in the margin of her workbook.

But when they’re given the list of required items and their locations in the room, she’s on her feet with the rest of them to go poking through cupboards. They find the foam trays in a floor-level cupboard also filled with wooden stands of glass tubes and beakers and flat little dishes; there are plastic bottles of hand and dish soap with carefully labelled jars of chemicals. The toothpicks are in drawers with pipettes and other strange things. And last, there are wide metal trays on benches all around the room.

“Don’t forget,” says the teacher, indicating the coat racks by the door. “You can’t do an experiment without proper safety equipment.”

A boy Amicia doesn’t know lifts a hand and asks, “Miss? Even if the experiment isn’t dangerous?”

“Even then. It’s a good habit to be in and accidents can happen in the most unlikely of circumstances.”

So they deposit their collection of items onto the bench near one of the trays and line up with the rest of the class to get a white lab coat and pair of clunky plastic goggles. Another boy has to ask the teacher for help setting the goggles on over his glasses and she pulls an even bigger and clunkier pair out of one of her drawers for him to use instead.

Mélie is the first one back, not bothering to button up her coat so it hangs open off her shoulders comically since it’s at least three sizes too big for her. She fills the tray with water even though she didn’t write the method down as instructed, but she doesn’t appear to have any trouble remembering them.

While she’s doing that, brows creased in concentration, Cecile digs in her bag and pulls out a pair of scissors to start cutting up the foam tray.

“This isn’t really a four-person experiment,” Noam says, watching the girls work. “Can I put the soap on it?”

Cecile passes him the foam when she’s done, a little triangle cut out of one end. As Mélie sets the shallow tray – now filled with water – carefully onto the bench she looks around, props her hip against the counter, folds her arms.

Amicia asks, “Miss? What happens if we use other kinds of soap?”

Their teacher crosses the room to watch as Noam sets the foam cut-out in the water and it skips across the surface of the water. “Why don’t you write in your books what you think will happen and then go back to the cupboard and find out?” She points to where she’s written in her incomprehensible handwriting several questions. “You might also want to see if changing the water temperature or what you make the cut-out from will alter the results.”

Underneath the ways she’s suggested they change the experiment, she’s written in big block letters in red pen ‘WRITE DOWN RESULTS’.

She claps her hands together to get the attention of every student. “Remember, kids. The difference between science and mucking around is writing down what happens. Record your results! That’s how we do science.”

So Amicia writes in her book:

Cold water – works fine

Hot water – no different to cold

Dish soap – goes quite fast

Hard soap – does nothing

And while she’s doing that, Mélie wanders back to the cupboard to collect a little bar of solid soap. The first issue they have is scraping enough off and getting it to stick to the foam. Once that’s done and placed in the tray again, nothing happens at all.

“Why do you think that is?” the teacher asks, leaning over their desk.

“Maybe the type of soap needs to be liquid?” Noam suggests.

“We didn’t clean the tray,” Mélie offers. “Still soap from last time.”

And the teacher smiles. “That’s right. Leftover soap from the first experiment means the water is soapy and there’s not enough difference between the water and the foam. Try using clean water and see if it helps.”

Amicia stares at Mélie while she tips the water down the sink in the bench. One hand runs down the metal to wipe away any soap that stuck to the bottom, the collar of her lab coat sticks out on one side, flyaway hair curls at her neck. Weird little things to notice, really. “Did you know that was the answer?” she asks for lack of anything else.

Mélie shrugs. “Soap’s soap, right? Don’t see why being solid or liquid would change that.” She glances over her shoulder at Amicia while filling the tray again. Doesn’t say anything. Just looks. Amicia doesn’t know why but the attention makes her shift her feet, uncomfortable a tiny bit. Her lips tick up into a slight smile and she lays the tray back on the bench.

Cecile puts the foam boat in the water this time, having wiped the soap from before off the sides. Amicia almost misses it, she’s so busy staring at Mélie and the freckles on her nose, but when she looks down, the little boat has skipped across the water just like it did before. Not as well as when it was liquid soap, but it still moves.

“Soap’s soap,” Amicia mumbles. “Huh.” When she looks up and smiles at Mélie, she gets an answering smile. It still contains a little of that sharp _something_ she noticed before, but it’s also a little bit more earnest.

It feels like the beginning of something.

\--

Their science lesson is a double block class in the morning, so they have a chance to do more work in the time frame, and it runs for a hundred minutes (a length of time that feels impossibly long to all of them). Other lessons will only be fifty minutes but Amicia worries that won’t be long enough to get things done.

Mélie has no such fears, “Thank god. My last school did ninety-minute lessons. It was rough.”

“Are you new here too?” Cecile asks.

“Yeah.”

Cecile beams at her, grabs her elbow. “Great! You can come with Amicia and I.”

Mélie looks decidedly uncomfortable by both the contact and also possibly being wrangled into this. “Oh yeah? Why?”

“No one should be alone on their first day,” Cecile goes on.

“Have lunch with us?” Amicia asks cautiously, making sure it sounds like a question and not a demand. When Mélie meets her eyes something about her shoulders relaxes. She still pulls free of Cecile’s hold but she follows it with a jerky nod.

That’s how Lucas finds out she had a fairly successful first encounter with New People. He grins at her when he spots her and they find a place to eat in the gardens under the balcony in the shade. He introduces himself to Cecile first, Mélie trails behind, clearly not big on meeting new people either. But when he finally sees her, his face goes white.

“Oh no,” he breathes.

Amicia lifts a brow. “What? This is Mélie, we have science together. She’s nice.”

Mélie’s lips arch up in something that says, ‘oh I’m _nice,_ am I? says _who_?’ and it’s… it’s sure something. “I don’t know you,” she says softly around that smirk. “So, I guess you met my brother.”

Lucas’ eyes widen. “There are _two_?”

And _that’s_ how Amicia meets _Arthur_.

He comes trotting down the path, locates his sister, slings an arm around her shoulder and beams a grin that is very much _not_ trustworthy. “Ah, Mélie. Who are these gals?”

His face is thinner than Mélie’s, his nose long and pointed, but his eyes are the same sharp blue as his sister’s. With the same red hair cut longer on top than around the sides and windswept, the same irreverent way of wearing the school uniform and the same uneven quirk to his mouth, it doesn’t take a genius to conclude that they’re twins. He smiles at both of them, but it widens into a cheeky Cheshire grin when he sees Lucas.

Mélie sighs. “We have science together.”

Cecile gives her name brightly and adds, “Amicia,” with a hand wave. Her eyes never leave Mélie’s brother.

He offers his hand to Cecile and says, “Arthur Dubois. Pleasure.” He flops down beside his sister and regales them with a story about how Lucas is a ‘pint sized genius’ and the teacher in their history class is probably not a fan of him.

“Did you do something, Lucas?” Amicia wonders. He’s always been too polite to make a scene.

“He told me,” Arthur explains when Lucas hunches his shoulders and refuses to talk, “that the date for something on the handout was wrong and I shouldn’t use it. Explained the whole history of it too. When the teacher came around later, she asked me why I had the wrong answer, so I told her.”

“She got angry with me,” Lucas says.

“On your _first day_?” Cecile exclaims, throwing a hand over her mouth. “How mean.”

“I probably shouldn’t have corrected her,” he mumbles.

Arthur puts his hands on his knees and leans across their squashed circle to fix Lucas with a pinched brow stare from a little closer. “No, man. You were _right_. She admitted she got the date wrong so that’s on _her_, not you.”

And Lucas smiles, lifts his chin from his chest. He shoots Amicia a look that she can read without any trouble in the least, all wide eyes and wonderment.

_Look, Amicia. We did it. We found friends_.

\--

Amicia, as she realised yesterday, has all her classes with Cecile. But she _also_ shares three out of six classes with Mélie. (And her mathematics lesson with Lucas.) And their literature teacher does _not_ sit them in alphabetical order, so Amicia doesn’t _have_ to sit beside her, she chooses to.

Mélie’s expression is unconcealed shock that her back corner has been encroached upon.

“Oh,” she says when she recognises Amicia. “Hi.”

“Good morning, Mélie.”

She lifts an eyebrow, her surprise swiftly covered by her sharp, canted smile. “Where’s your friend?”

“Bathroom stop before class.” She slips her books from her bag and unfolds them neatly on her desk. It’s a bit of a holdover from spending so much time with Lucas that she lays her stationary out in a certain way, but Mélie follows her process the whole time.

“Very pedantic, princess.”

She shrugs. “Habit.”

For her part, Mélie has her book open and a pen in her hand but there’s not much to indicate she intends to do work today. The margins of the page are covered in more blue ink doodles. Some are more abstract than others but when Mélie shifts her arm to cover part of the page Amicia stops trying to look at them.

Mélie eyes her in a way she can’t quite figure out, a little bit curious and a lot of some other things. When Amicia smiles, her brows crease together.

Cecile joins them late, barely ahead of the teacher and in a hurry to get her stuff together before the lesson begins. This teacher doesn’t wait for her, doesn’t seem particularly inclined to give any of them a chance to catch their breath or a maybe just hasn’t heard of a learning curve. He jumps them right into the deep end.

Here is the book. Read it. Get ready. The way he talks about the literature and assessment, it sounds like some kind of life or death gauntlet.

It’s no wonder Mélie looks worried.

\--

Lucas claps his hands together, face lighting up brilliantly. “Oh! We should form a study group!”

Mélie rolls her eyes dramatically, leans back against the cool stone wall. “You watch too many teen movies, Lucas. I hardly think we need to get so carried away.”

“We should prepare for higher grades now.”

Arthur gives his sister a tilted-head questioning look and throws an arm around Lucas’ shoulders. Immediately, Lucas looks uncomfortable, shrinks away from the contact, but doesn’t shove him off. “I think that’s a great idea. We can hang out at the park or something.”

“Why would we study in the park?” Lucas’ shoulders must be tensed up because Arthur removes his arm as he’s asking the question.

“Why not? You can do some study, and we can not do that. But we’ll all be together.”

Not really having expected Arthur to be the kind to come up with a compromise, Amicia finds herself laughing. “I don’t think we need to be _too_ worried about study group,” she says around her smile. “But I think the park sounds nice.”

Arthur slugs Mélie in the shoulder. “What about you, jerk?”

She sways dangerously to one side but it’s a reaction she’s playing up for effect if the snarky little smile tugging at her lips is anything to go by. “Fine. We’ll sit in your dumb park.” She throws a punch back at Arthur that looks somewhat harder than his was. “Is Cecile invited or does she miss out because she didn’t show up today?”

“She’s applying for the band,” Amicia explains. “I’ll let her know in maths.”

Mélie shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.” But Amicia thinks maybe she’s putting on a bit of a face; she might just care more than she lets on.

\--

The second term, Amicia’s group rotates from music and into art, so Robert takes her and Hugo to the stationary store to buy some extra notebooks and art supplies. Hugo is only two, but he’s already found a love for brightly coloured crayons and Robert is the kind of father to let him pick them out, and Amicia didn’t know what equipment would be required for art and she hated having to borrow Lucas’ pens.

While Hugo and Robert talk to the sales clerk at the counter, she goes for a wander through the aisles looking for sketch pads and anything that appears it might be useful for pencil drawings. The store is large and airy and has several tall windows to let in light. At the back is a small area with some easels and chairs where a couple of people are painting or sketching or something.

“What’s this for?” she asks someone in the purple shirt of the employees.

The woman looks down at her and smiles. “We let people test our items for free if they do it here. That way they can decide what they like.”

She watches for a moment, gets distracted by someone yelling outside, looks over.

It’s Arthur.

His eyes are fixed on something Amicia can’t see, his mouth moves but she can’t hear it. Then he’s storming away. Amicia asks the employee what things are good for school art classes and once she’s got her arms full, after depositing the items on her father at the desk, she heads outside, eyes scanning the parking lot.

It’s not Arthur she spots, however, but Mélie. She’s sitting on the curb with her knees drawn up under her chin, back to a tree, shielded from the other direction by a massive four-wheel drive and hidden from the walkway by shrubs. She’s _not_ safe from Amicia.

“Mélie?” she calls, walking over.

Her friend starts violently, shoulders and arms lifting as if ready for a fight. When she notices Amicia, her posture slackens and she rubs the back of her hand under her nose.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice is scratchy.

“Getting stuff for school. What about you?”

She hunches her shoulders up under her ears. “Groceries.”

After a long beat of quiet, Amicia sits down beside her. “You okay?”

Mélie barks a wet laugh. “Yeah, princess. I’m _fine_.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“In case you don’t want to talk about it.”

Mélie looks around at her sharply, surprise flashing across her features before being swept away by her usual snark. “Good. Cause I don’t.”

“Okay.” She lifts a fist like she does for Lucas. Mélie’s expression is blank, and she frowns at the hand warily. It takes her a moment, gaze flicking from Amicia’s fist to her eyes, darting between them, then back down, but she does finally lift her own and bonk them together awkwardly. Amicia sways sideways so their shoulders bump. “But if you ever do need to talk, you can.”

Mélie’s eyes flit across Amicia’s face, a crease deepening just a little between her brows. She comes to an obvious conclusion, it’s written all over her body language when she decides something, but Amicia is at a loss for what it might be. Mélie rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

And Amicia has known her for like a few months by this point, and she’s already figured out that Mélie’s sardonic persona is all armour against genuine emotion. Which means her droll reply is a _good_ thing, and so Amicia smiles at her.

“Meesa?”

“Over here!”

Mélie flinches again at the raised voices, lips pursing, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. Amicia is so busy watching her forcibly relax that she doesn’t see Hugo waddling over until he’s barrelled into her side. Robert isn’t far off, holding a white bag filled with their things. He watches them closely but doesn’t step in.

“Who you?” He lets her go after a second to scoot closer to Mélie. “Meesa’s friend?”

Mélie’s expression has turned into pure horror and she leans away from Hugo. Amicia laughs and takes his hand, draws him away. “Yes. This is Mélie, she’s my new friend. Her brother is here somewhere too.”

Hugo’s little face lights up. “We be friend?” No doubt he’s latching onto the word ‘brother’ and assuming something similar to their situation since that’s what he knows.

“They’re twins, Hugo,” she explains, “so they’re the same age. But I’m sure he’d be your friend.”

“You saw Arthur?”

Hugo crawls into her lap before she answers, “Yes. He was heading this way, but I think he went past the car and must have missed you.”

Her brows draw down severely. “Was there… anyone else?”

“Not that I saw. Why?”

She lifts her shoulders again, pulls her legs closer to her chest. “No reason.”

There very obviously _is_ a reason, but Amicia doesn’t push. She stares at Mélie’s profile for a beat or five more and then turns back to Hugo, glances over at their father. “Did you run away from dad?”

Hugo giggles. “I faster!”

“You _are_ slippery.”

“A doffin!”

Amicia laughs. “Like a dolphin.” And when she risks a glance back at Mélie, she’s wearing a smile too. It’s paper thin and watery, at risk of falling apart, but better than nothing.

She has no idea what might’ve made her look so desolate, but any amount of cheering up is better than none.

\--

“I’d like you to be there.”

Mélie ducks her head down lower, scribbles faster in her notebook. Amicia is pretty sure she’s not writing any of the chemistry notes, she’s just trying to avoid the conversation.

“I’ll tell my parents,” Cecile says from her other side. “This weekend, right?”

Amicia turns to her, smiles, says, “Yes, that’s right. On Saturday.”

“Got it.” And she scrawls a reminder in her school diary and adds, “Do we need to bring anything?”

“Just yourselves,” Amicia says, addressing both of them because she still wants Mélie to be there too. And Arthur, but he hadn’t required any convincing when she’d stopped him at his locker earlier. He’d just said, ‘heck yeah,’ and high fived her. “And an appetite, probably. When I told dad I wanted to invite friends he got this look in his eyes like I think he might cook a whole cow.”

Her birthday happens to fall about half-way through the term, spring still chilly most of the time, but warming up here and there, the mid-semester holidays are only a week away. Her mother had wanted her to wait and have it then, but Amicia insisted. Fortunately, this year, April twelfth happens to be a weekend, so her mother caved.

Now all Amicia needs is for Mélie to cave too and all her friends will be there.

When the bell goes a few minutes later, Cecile waves and hurries off to band practice leaving just the two of them. Sometimes Amicia worries that Mélie only hangs out with them because they won’t hear of anything else, sometimes maybe it’s because Arthur seems so fond of them and if she’s not with him then she’s alone. So, when they’re leaving and Mélie has her rucksack slung over her shoulder, Amicia grabs at her free hand, holds tight against the predictable tug of surprise and rejection of physical contact.

“Please, Mélie,” she says quietly.

She rolls her eyes. “Why would you want me there, anyway?”

“You’re my friend.”

For some reason, that answer seems to stun her into complete silence. Her mouth opens part way as if to speak but no sound comes out, she fixes a wide-eyed stare on Amicia, gaze flicking from her face to their joined hands and back. When Amicia squeezes her fingers there’s a funny little reaction where her teeth click together as if her hands are connected to her mouth somehow.

“I’m not bringing a present,” Mélie finally exhales.

Amicia beams at her. “I don’t need a present.”

Mélie rolls her eyes again, heads off towards their lunch spot, doesn’t pull her hand free though, just glances over at her and says, “You’re crazy.”

\--

To Amicia’s complete lack of surprise, her mother is busy on her birthday, but her dad isn’t and he’s the sort of bluff fellow who tries to scoop all her friends up into a hug when they arrive, food already cooking in the kitchen.

“Your mum’s with Hugo, kiddo,” he says to her, “but she’ll be back later with cake.” He takes Arthur’s hand – so small, almost engulfed entirely by his own giant paw – and shakes it like they’re at a business meeting. “It’s nice to meet you, young sir.”

“Hi,” Arthur replies. His tone is almost earnest, clearly unsure if he should be sassy or not. “I like your beard.”

And Robert laughs, pats him on the shoulder. “Thank you.” He gives Lucas a fist bump and moves onto Cecile. “You’re Cecile, then. Lovely to meet you.” He even makes a silly little half bow over her hands and everything. Cecile giggles and can’t meet his eyes. Then he sees Mélie, standing a little further away, as always. He must recognise her from the afternoon in the parking lot, but he makes no mention of it. “You must be Mélie,” Robert says, softly. “Amicia was so glad you decided to come.”

“_Dad_,” she hisses. But when she glances at Mélie finds she’s being watched. It’s a strange, studious expression; two parts crooked smile and four parts confusion. Amicia holds her hand out to Mélie, hoping to lessen how awkward she feels around her father. “Come on. I’ll show you the treehouse dad built us!”

It takes a moment, but Mélie does eventually take her hand and allow herself to be led outside.

The others (except Lucas) follow. Robert immediately strikes up a conversation with Lucas and they go into the kitchen together, saving him from the ordeal of deciding whether or not he wants to put himself in a situation like the treehouse. When it’s just the two of them, the treehouse is fine, but with three others it’ll be cramped. Lucas is not a fan of cramped.

Arthur is a regular gymnast, scaling the ladder nailed into the trunk like he was born in the woods. Mélie, no surprises, proves equally nimble, but Cecile looks up at the underside of the perfectly well constructed hut and goes white.

“I don’t think I want to be up so high, Amicia,” she whispers. She tugs on the hem of her shirt and throws her other hand vaguely over her shoulder. “I… um… might go inside.”

“Are you sure? I can get them down and we can do something together?”

Cecile smiles at her faintly. “It’s… um… yeah. I’m fine. I’ll go talk to your dad, he seems nice.”

She offers a little wave and backs up before turning to go inside. Amicia watches her go and when she looks up at the treehouse, she sees Arthur sticking his head out the window.

“What’s up?”

She laughs, “You are!” and scrambles up to join them before adding, “I don’t think Cecile likes heights.”

Arthur slumps to the floor, leans back against the wall. “She’s missing out, this is really cool. Your dad made it?”

“Yes. Mum says when he found out she was pregnant he got so excited he started making things.”

He laughs but it’s hollow, cheer trying to hide something else. “Lucky girl. It’s a good place to hide, bet your parents are too big to fit in here.”

“I suppose they are.” And she’s still young enough that she isn’t quite sure what he means.

They don’t spend long up in the treehouse. Or rather, Amicia doesn’t. The twins hang out up there for a while, but she joins the others. When Robert finally coaxes them down, he shows them how to play air hockey. It’s not a full-sized table (the box calls it travel hockey), but it’s big enough that they can get their whole bodies behind it.

Cecile says that Amicia should win because she’s the birthday girl. Neither Dubois cares much for that, evidently, because they both attempt to thoroughly trounce her.

Arthur is doing a victory lap of the lounge room to the soundtrack of the rest of them laughing when Beatrice returns with Hugo and cake. She greets all her friends, asks when they’ll be collected, if they have any allergies, have they had a nice afternoon.

Her parents keep themselves scarce while they eat dinner and then Arthur wants a rematch of air hockey. But not from Amicia. Lucas gave him the closest match and he’s determined to prove it wasn’t a fluke, apparently.

Amicia trots into the kitchen and finds her parents cutting birthday cake. “Have you seen Mélie?”

Robert and Beatrice look up, exchange glances. “I thought I heard the back door,” Robert says, “but I assumed I was hearing things. Maybe that was her?”

She frowns, looks out the window, but all she can see is the reflection of the kitchen. It’s dark out. “Can I have a slice of cake?”

Without hesitation, her father places a wide swedge of cake on a plate along with two little spoons. “Take the torch,” he adds and she nods.

The door creaks behind her and she wobbles a little, it’s hard to balance the spoons on the plate and also hold the torchlight steady. It becomes even harder when she spots a glimmer of light from up in the treehouse and she realises that’s probably where Mélie is. Amicia turns the torch off and stuffs it in her waistband before attempting to climb the rungs with only one hand.

It’s _hard_.

She drops one of the spoons.

But, miraculously, the cake survives.

When she sticks her head up into the treehouse, she expects to see Mélie on a phone or something. Instead, what she finds is Mélie spinning a pen across the backs of her fingers, one end is a torch and that’s where the light is coming from.

“Hey.”

Mélie fumbles the pen and it clatters to the wood.

“I brought cake.”

Amicia pushes the plate across the floor before scrambling in and sitting beside her.

“Only one spoon? All for you?” Mélie asks, voice flat.

“There were two spoons,” she admits. “I dropped it climbing up.” It’s about at this point she realises she probably should’ve put the spoons in her pocket. “We can still share.”

Mélie stares at her, but in the darkness – lit only by the faint light from her pen – it’s impossible to see her expression. Could be anything. She does eventually slice a corner off and eat it, though, so Amicia smiles, leans over and bumps their shoulders together.

“What are you doing up here anyway?” she asks, taking the spoon when Mélie offers it.

She doesn’t answer. For the longest while they sit there in silence, swapping the spoon back and forth until the cake is gone, then they sit there some more. Mélie picks her pen back up, clicks the end to turn it off, and then they’re sitting in darkness.

Amicia watches the shape she knows is Mélie carefully, wondering what’s wrong but not sure how to ask. When the shape shifts, her skin prickles. “Thank you,” Mélie whispers.

She doesn’t explain what for, doesn’t go further and Amicia doesn’t know what to say, how to press for details. So she says, “Any time,” and when Mélie climbs down, she picks up the empty plate and follows.

\--

Cecile, Arthur and Mélie visit more often after her birthday, especially when summer rolls around and there’s no school lunch times for them to hang out. Sometimes they spend an afternoon in Amicia’s backyard, Arthur is convinced that the treehouse should become a fort of some kind, but they have no way to defend this imagined castle. Cecile still won’t climb it, though. (And looking back, Amicia wonders if that was the point where it started to change.)

Occasionally they go to Lucas’ place, but that’s rare. When it’s just him and Amicia it’s fine, but Laurentius sometimes gets overwhelmed when they all stop by.

Once or twice they hang out at Cecile’s house; her family works with horses, so they live on a large property with lots of opportunities for exploring. Her parents have a weird work schedule though, and they don’t like having a gaggle of kids underfoot when they’re really busy.

They never do hang out at the park for those study sessions Lucas wanted.

But they _also_ never go to Mélie and Arthur’s house. She doesn’t know why, but whenever they make plans to meet outside of school, their place is never brought up as an option. Maybe they live in an apartment that’s too small for guests.

\--

Their classes change in la quatrième; it has pros and cons like anything else.

Pros: she has more classes with Lucas this year! She still shares a bunch with Mélie and has science with Arthur this time too.

Cons: she shares exactly _zero_ of her lessons with Cecile this time around. Which, okay, isn’t a con so much in itself, the downside to this appears later, a few weeks into the new term.

It’s Cecile introducing them to Ana and Louis and Lucien. It’s Mélie wrapping herself up in armour thicker than Amicia thinks she’s ever seen it. It’s Arthur masking his real feelings with ridiculous jokes and snide remarks. It’s Lucas going quiet every lunch time, not saying a word so he doesn’t interrupt the possibility of other’s having something to say.

It’s a wedge.

The slow drift is probably inevitable, but that doesn’t mean Amicia has to enjoy it.

Cecile stops by their little shaded corner of the courtyard one lunch time and says, “The first school dance of the year is next weekend, Amicia. Are you going?” She doesn’t ask Lucas or Mélie because they’ll say ‘no’ (she can’t ask Arthur because he’s home sick). But even knowing they’ll decline shouldn’t stop her from enquiring anyway. At least that’s what Amicia thinks.

She shakes her head. “Probably not.”

She shrugs and keeps walking.

“You should go,” Mélie says flatly.

Amicia blinks. “Why? We’re going to Lucas’.”

Lucas looks absolutely horrified by the possibility that Amicia will choose the dance over them (or perhaps him more specifically). Mélie just hunches a shoulder, looks away. “If you wanna, then you should go.”

“I… don’t want to,” she replies, frowning a little. “I’m going to spend the night with my friends.”

Mélie’s other shoulder rises to join the first and then they both drop, drop further than normal into a slumped, defeated posture. Her lips meet in a thin line, white from pressing together so hard. She doesn’t meet Amicia’s eyes again for the rest of the day.

\--

It’s not until the Friday night of the dance that Amicia finally figures out what’s wrong with her; what’s wrong with _both_ twins, really. Or at the very least, what’s gotten them so twisted up lately.

The four of them are sprawled out on spare mattresses in Laurentius’ living room, eyes lidded in the late hour, lit only by the flickering colours of a bad movie adaptation of some hit book series. Amicia rubs her eyes, yawns, stands to clean her teeth before bed. It’s not easy doing so when her eyes won’t stay open and everything’s all bleary when they are, and it’s as she’s shuffling back into the lounge that she hears Lucas ask his question.

“Why did you even ask her, Mélie?”

She freezes, a gut reaction, mostly, but now she’s stopped, getting started walking again seems an impossible task.

“Ask…? What?”

There’s a heavy thump and shuffling and then Lucas speaks again. “Why did you say Amicia should go to the dance?”

Mélie’s voice is muffled when she next speaks, “Because she should. She _will_.”

“What does that mean?” Lucas sounds scared, so soft and fragile but Amicia’s feet are still too tired to carry her over to him.

“It means, dork, that girls like her will always leave. Cecile did. She figured out that she’s too…” Mélie trails off, sighs and when she starts up again her voice is the same breakable glass as Lucas’. “She’s so bright, from a family who loves her, she doesn’t know what it… Look, Lucas. Just get ready for it, okay?”

“People leave.” Arthur’s voice that time, he sounds resigned. “They find other people like them and they leave. It’s just what happens.”

“Or they realise you’re _not_ like them,” Mélie adds. “Same result.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Arthur finishes.

It’s quiet for a long drawn out breath and Amicia shuffles the last of the way into the room, flops down between Mélie and Lucas. Her brain is too sleepy at the moment to deal with that. But it’s nice when Lucas finally whispers, “I don’t think you guys are right.”

\--

She has literature with Mélie again this year and it’s the only class where it’s just the two of them. Amicia uses it as her chance to corner Mélie alone.

“Why do you think I’ll leave?” she asks without warning at the end of another lesson where Mélie has avoided looking at her as much as possible. They sat together, exchanged comments, Amicia borrowed her pen even though she had her own just because she thought it might start a conversation or prompt some teasing, _anything_ other than silence.

At her words, Mélie drops her little pen case; it clatters when it hits the side of the desk on the way down and the lid flies off, pens spilling out. Amicia drops into a crouch to help her pick up her half dozen pens and ruler but instead of handing them back she clutches them tighter. Mélie still hasn’t looked at her.

“Mélie?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” Amicia takes a step closer and Mélie takes one back. “Please? Talk to me.”

Mélie takes another half step away, turns her face to the wall, her jaw clenching. “Let’s go to lunch.”

“No.” She reaches a hand out and Mélie backs away again, starts when her shoulders hit the wall. With nowhere else to go, she can’t escape when Amicia reaches for her wrist. “Why would I leave?”

Mélie turns to look at her now, jaw still tight, eyes filled with something burning, she rips her hand free, shoulders up, defensive. “Because people _leave_,” she snaps. “Because you have _everything_ and people with everything don’t need losers like us. They find others with everything and we just have to make do. Because you…” Her mouth keeps moving but no sound comes out; her shoulders slump again into that defeated posture. “Because we’re _different_.”

She’s dropped her eyes again, won’t meet Amicia’s gaze, too busy studying the weave of the carpet. And even though Amicia isn’t really sure precisely what she’s talking about, she can see painted in every angle of her body, in the way her lips twitch downwards into a sour frown rather than up into her cheeky smile, that she’s speaking from experience.

Amicia drops the pens onto the nearest desk, crosses the space and throws her arms around Mélie’s shoulders. “You’re not a loser,” she says softly, ignoring how tense Mélie is under her. “And maybe we are different, but you’re my friend, Mélie.”

She doesn’t return the hug, just stands there, slack. “You don’t get it, do you?”

She squeezes tighter. “What’s to get?”

“Having parents who care makes a difference,” she mutters, tone bitter, angry. “They remember birthdays, buy you things, make sure you have stuff for school… teach you things, help you with reading and writing and…”

It’s not until Mélie’s stopped talking that Amicia realises she’s shaking and when she leans out just a fraction she notices how her eyes are screwed shut but it’s not enough to hold back the tears. Amicia doesn’t let her go, though, just pulls her back in and hugs her tighter.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she whispers. “But you can if you want.”

Mélie shakes her head, but she also finally lifts her arms and hugs back; fiercely, like she’s never been hugged before in her life and expects this to be her only chance to experience it.

“I’m _your_ friend, too, Mélie,” Amicia adds, softly, fingers clutching tighter. “That’s not going to change.”

She can _feel_ in her bones the reply Mélie wants to make, the ‘you don’t know that’, the ‘it might’, the ‘people change’. So Amicia considers it good progress that she doesn’t actually verbalise it.

\--

“When _is_ your birthday?” Amicia asks a few days later. Mélie still seems reluctant to believe that Amicia really considers her a friend of value, but at least she’ll meet her eyes again. Now, when she looks up from her history notes she even finds Mélie wearing her crooked little smile. It’s nice. “We didn’t do anything last year.” Pause. “Or this year, I guess. We haven’t missed it, have we?”

Mélie laughs, quietly, not wanting to attract their teacher. “No, princess, you haven’t missed it. We’re the twenty-second of December.”

“Oh, geez.”

“Yeah.” Her laugh turns tart when she adds, “Dad says we’re the worst early Christmas present he ever got.”

Amicia blinks. They don’t talk about their parents a lot, she thinks this might even be the first direct acknowledgement that they _have_ a father who is present in their lives. “What a nasty thing to say. You should come and visit this year. We’ll make a cake or something.”

Mélie’s eyebrows lift. “Both of us?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m not very good in a kitchen.”

“That’s what recipes are for.”

\--

Whatever the bug was Arthur had come down with a few weeks ago, it hits Mélie next and she’s away from school for a couple of days. Arthur’s face is still drawn, pinched around his mouth, he’s been wearing a jumper despite it not being cold enough for it, says he still has a chill. It’s not any lingering symptoms that stop him from taking notes during class, though. Like Mélie, he brings pens and workbooks to class, but only rarely does he put anything productive in them.

_Unlike_ Mélie, however, he doesn’t doodle in his books, he seems to be writing in some sort of code. It annoys the _hell_ out of Lucas.

“I’m sitting in the middle today,” Amicia tells them when she slides into a seat in science that afternoon. “You two are distracting when you sit together.”

Lucas huffs, but Arthur shoots her a grateful smile and sinks down to her left. “Sorry, Lucas,” he says, leaning forward to look past her. “Next time.”

“Why _do_ you and Mélie never take proper notes?” Lucas asks.

And Arthur’s whole body pulls back like he’s trying to merge with his stool, his face crumples up, jaw clenching. It’s a defensive expression almost _identical_ to the one Mélie uses. He looks away, looks back, sighs and drops his gaze to the desk, one hand splaying out across his notebook.

“We never got any help from our parents,” he mumbles. “Other kids had mums who would read to them or fathers to teach them letters. Ours didn’t care, so…” His lips twist down wryly. “Well, teachers say our _literacy levels_ are lower than expected. It sounds nicer that way.” He rubs a thumb across his page. “We came up with other ways to remember what we needed to.”

Amicia and Lucas watch him closely, not speaking. And when the silence has stretched on probably longer than they should’ve let it, Arthur looks up.

“This is why we don’t tell people,” he grumbles. “Pity.”

“Actually…” Amicia begins carefully. “I was thinking maybe we should give Lucas’ study group idea another look. Maybe we can help?”

Surprise flashes across Arthur’s face, his jaw relaxes. “You…?”

“We’re your friends, Arthur,” Lucas adds. “Let us help.”

There’s another long beat where his face is completely unreadable, caught somewhere between shock and wariness, maybe; but then a smile blooms and there’s nothing snarky about it. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

\--

This is about the time where Amicia starts to realise that Mélie and Arthur have never _had_ real friends before. Never had people who would _stay_. It’s always just been the two of them.

It makes her angry.

\--

“Mum?”

Beatrice hums.

“Can my friends come over? We’re doing study sessions together.”

From the other side of the room, Robert looks up, laughs. “You’re what? Already?”

“Yes. It’s better to help each other.” She doesn’t tell her parents about the trouble Mélie and Arthur have with academics. It’s not hers to share.

“Of course they can, honey,” Beatrice says. “I’ll buy some snacks.”

“Thanks.”

\--

And the good thing about having study at her place is that her dad is almost _always_ home when they are. So if there’s ever anything Amicia and Lucas can’t explain, he’s there to help. The best part is that Robert does so without judgement, either.

Even Mélie – so reluctant about the idea when Arthur first put it to her – warms up to it eventually.

(She even teaches Robert how to do secret handshakes. He _loves_ it.)

\--

This year marks the first time their cohort gets to participate in the sports events with the upper school grades instead of the younger ones. It’s more exciting being bussed out to a venue than spending the day on the school oval, mostly because they get to sit together up the back of the bus and listen to some of the louder kids try and teach everyone driving songs. It doesn’t go over super well, but it’s amusing.

Amicia has a window seat, Mélie beside her, and in the seat in front is Cecile. They haven’t talked lately as much as they used to, but now Cecile leans up on the back of her chair and spends almost the entire ride chatting with her.

“Are they sitting us in house groups, Amicia?” she asks.

She shrugs. “I’m sure they’d probably prefer that, but I doubt it’ll work.”

Cecile remains the only person in Harpyia she knows well enough to label ‘friend’; Lucas is wearing the blue sports shirt like they were all instructed (but most people didn’t bother) with the name of his house, Cetus, stitched on the left breast; and the twins have forgone house colours today in favour of regular sports uniform but Arthur is wearing a green bandana around his head for the Gargoille house. She won’t be surprised if a teacher confiscates it.

Cecile has followed her gaze. “Yeah, all different houses. Louis and Ana are Cetus, and Lucien is Dracen. But if they do try and enforce it, I guess it’ll just be you and me again!”

Beside Cecile, Ana lifts up so she can peer over the back of the chair too. “I hope they don’t do that. I get that the teachers want us to like, mingle with older kids and all that but… _ugh_.”

The teachers seat them in house groups. It’s more than a little messy, there aren’t really enough teachers for the number of students that pile out of the six buses so it’s no surprise that a bunch of kids will probably slip through the cracks. What _is_ a surprise is when Mélie grabs Arthur by the shoulder and tugs at the knot on his bandana until she can pull it off his head.

“Hey,” he huffs. “What? That’s mine.”

“Not today.” And then she loops it around Amicia’s neck like a scarf. “Your pass to sit with us.” It’s only because she’s not wearing orange that this is likely to pass.

Something warm settles into her chest and a smile blossoms on her face, perhaps spurred by the warmth, but perhaps just a regular reaction to Mélie. “Thanks.”

She gets an eye roll. “Whatever, princess. Let’s go find somewhere in the shade to sit.”

The Gargoille house lucked out and have been allotted space in the tree line around the outside of the sports field, unlike Amicia’s house which have the stands on the other side. Sure, they have the actual seats, but they’ll also be in the sun most of the day so it sucks to be them.

Mélie folds her legs under the tree, drops her backpack beside her and leans against the bark, closes her eyes. She scrunches her brow a little but it’s not until Amicia sits beside her that she realises it’s because this early in the morning there is still sunlight filtering at just the wrong angle through the leaves to hit her in the face. So Amicia digs in her bag until she finds her sunglasses and carefully slides them over Mélie’s nose. As the arms are going over her ears she twitches, opens her eyes, huffs a laugh, mouth curving up into that charming, snarky smile.

“Thanks.”

“Miss de Rune.” Mélie looks up at the same time as Amicia but goes back to leaning against the tree. It’s their science teacher with a big floppy hat on. “This is not your house.”

She smiles, “Yes, it is, miss,” points to her new scarf. “I’m an honourary Gargoille for the day.”

“And Mister Buisson?”

“Doesn’t matter where I sit, miss,” he says, “I’m going to read all day.”

Their teacher laughs. “At least you’re honest about it. Keep out of the sun, kids, it’s meant to be hot today.” She wanders off, no doubt more concerned with students who are likely to get up to mischief.

“So is this your plan for the day?” Amicia asks as Arthur lays himself out on the grass using his bag as a pillow.

“Yep,” he replies, dropping his hat over his face. “Sleep is where it’s at.”

“And you, princess?” Mélie asks without moving.

“I’m going to read the last of our book for literature.”

“Of course you are,” Arthur huffs. He yawns and adjusts his hat. “Have fun.”

Amicia just smiles at him. There’s probably some sort of school spirit thing she should be involved with on sports day but it’s relaxing to just sit with her friends and not feel the pressure of anything for a while. And despite being a dense read, she finds she quite enjoys the Flaubert novel they’re doing in class, not that she really understands what qualifies this as a classic when there are so many other, less flowery and more accessible books out there, but it probably has something to do with having enough substance to it for dissection and essay writing or some nonsense like that.

She doesn’t finish it, Lucas might be able to pick up a book and read it cover to cover in a single sitting, but she gets bored of doing nothing eventually.

“I’m going for a walk, Lucas,” she tells him, pulling her hat from her bag. When he looks up it takes his eyes a while to focus on her. “Would you like me to buy you something from the canteen?”

“No thank you, I’m fine.” He immediately goes back to reading.

So, she stands, stretches her arms up until her back cracks, and heads down the moderate incline towards the field. There’s a track around the field with a fence on the outside; within that fence is where events take place, but anywhere on her side it’s perfectly safe to not look around for sprinters barrelling down the track.

She wanders around the perimeter and up to the canteen where several teachers are serving snacks for the students and will have lunch foods available later for anyone who didn’t bring their own. Amicia pauses there, eyes the line and decides she doesn’t want to bother waiting so she keeps walking.

It doesn’t take her long to reach the Harpyia stands, and when she does, it takes barely a minute for her to pick Cecile out of the crowd. The same as the four of them, Cecile and Ana are camped out together under a wide umbrella someone had stuck in the ground beside the stands. No matter the house designations, students will sit with their friends. Most of the teachers wandering around don’t seem to mind too much, they mostly stop students who are causing trouble in other house groups than their own. It’s probably a good thing, really, that they’re so willing to mix with other houses; if they truly engaged in this ‘house loyalty’ stuff there’d be a lot more nastiness said during these events.

Ana spots her first when she wanders over. “Hey. Found your house, huh?”

Amicia smiles, stops just at the edge of the umbrella’s shade. “Just stretching my legs. Where are the other two?”

“Competing,” Cecile tells her, one finger lifted to indicate across the field. “Louis’ doing track and Lucien high jump.”

“They’re not very good,” Ana laughs, “they were roped into it by some of their other friends.”

“They didn’t talk you into it as well?” Amicia asks, joining Ana’s laughter.

“Not us!” Cecile crows. “They tried. Louis thinks Ana should join the soccer team.” Her eyes light up. “You should too!”

Amicia huffs a laugh, “Oh no, not me. And not you either, I take it?”

“Absolutely not. I’m more of a… hm… maybe debating or something.”

She bobs her head. “If I have to pick a sport, maybe tennis,” she muses after a moment.

“Not into sports, are you?” Ana asks.

“Well, not really.” She shrugs. “It was just me and Lucas before, and we’re more of a… hang out in the library sort of people.”

Cecile leans forward sharply as if she’d been waiting for an opening a lot like this one. “Are you and Lucas dating?”

She blinks at her stupidly. “Are we… What? No. Why would you think that?”

“You hang out all the time.”

“He’s my best friend. And I don’t hang out with him any more than Arthur and Mélie.”

Cecile tips her head to one side, it’s probably meant to resemble those cute little puppy head-tilts where they demand food with big pure eyes. But the effect this gives with her coy smile makes her anxious instead. “Are you dating Arthur?”

“What? Cecile, _no_.” She leaves unspoken that she hadn’t – up until this very moment – even considered either of them were… _options_ for lack of a better term. Hadn’t thought of them in that way at all, let alone that someone else might. Hadn’t paused to consider dating as a concept either, honestly.

(This is the first such conversation she can remember having. Surely, Mélie never broached a subject like this and she’d never felt the urge to discuss it with Lucas. Maybe that should’ve told her something.)

“So…” Cecile drawls, running the vowel sound out obnoxiously, “if I were to, say, drop some hints for Arthur, you wouldn’t be mad?”

She blinks again, feeling very stupid. “No?”

“Good.” Cecile leans back on her hands, looking very satisfied with herself. “That’s good to know.”

\--

“Where did you go?”

Arthur is still lying down, head on his backpack, one leg propped up on the other knee, phone held sideways in his hands, evidently playing a game. But he’s the first one to notice her arrival back under their tree. Lucas doesn’t look up, too engrossed in his book, and the only real acknowledgement she gets from Mélie, is the way she lifts a hand to nudge the glasses down her nose just slightly.

“Just for a walk, got bored sitting here.”

He looks back down to his phone. “Anything exciting?”

She lifts her shoulders and let’s them fall again in a half-hearted shrug. “Not really. It’s hot in the sun, there are races, Ana was thinking about joining the soccer team, she’s trying to talk me into picking up an extra-curricular as well, Cecile wants Arthur to ask her out. Nothing interesting.”

Arthur shoots bolt upright as she finishes speaking. “She _what_?”

Amicia settles herself back down beside Mélie against the tree. “She asked me if I was dating you and then pretty much stated she’s going to… well, I don’t know. Can’t think of another reason for that very strange conversation, though.”

Mélie’s tipped the glasses back over her eyes, but there’s a crooked smile curling her lips. Lucas has lowered his book, so he’s clearly listening, but he doesn’t appear to know what to do with this particular line of dialogue.

Arthur’s mouth works soundlessly, he’s completely forgotten the phone in his hands.

“Huh,” he eventually manages.

“What extra-curricular were you thinking, Amicia?” Lucas asks.

“Tennis. Why?”

“Nothing. I was thinking of signing up for debating.”

“So is Cecile.” She turns to Mélie. “Would you play tennis with me?”

She barks a laugh. “Absolutely not. Arthur will though.”

“What?”

“Play tennis with Amicia?”

“Oh,” his voice is still a little lost sounding. “Yeah. Sure.” He’s not convincing, but then he does have other things on his mind.

Amicia tips her head back against the tree and closes her eyes, not intending on falling asleep. But she wakes up later with her head on Mélie’s shoulder.

\--

Mélie does not return her sunglasses.

\--

The school debate team starts up literally that same week. Amicia (who wasn’t really interested in joining the debate team) didn’t know this, but Lucas tells her excitedly after arriving to lunch fifteen minutes late one day that he and Cecile are going to be on the same team. Mélie and Arthur look worried until Lucas adds, “I wouldn’t want to argue against her, she can pull things from out of nowhere and make it sound convincing. I helped her with her literature paper last year; it’s just a _skill_ she has.”

No doubt the twins were both struck by some not-quite-banished fear that eventually they’ll be left, again, with no friends. But all Lucas does is ask if they’d want to come and watch him at the debate in two weeks.

“Why would we wanna watch a bunch of nerds politely yell at each other?” Arthur asks, accompanied by an eyeroll from his sister. “Sounds boring.”

“They provide pizza.”

“We’ll be there.”

\--

“So…” Arthur says slowly. “I don’t know what my sister told you, but I don’t actually know how to play tennis.”

And he’s holding the racket like he thinks it’s going to bite him, so yes, Amicia believes him. She stands beside him and holds up her own to demonstrate.

“Hold with one hand for speed,” she says, gripping the handle and then adding her left hand below it, “or two for power. Don’t do that too often, it’s limiting.” He follows her movement but doesn’t really look any more comfortable. “If it lands inside these lines,” she goes on, using her racket to point them out, “then the ball stays in play. Outside them and it’s a lost point. It has to bounce inside the lines and then go out without your opponent hitting it to be a point otherwise.”

“Okay.” He swings the racket experimentally, using his wrist to make it swish. “Smash that ball my way then.”

Amicia crosses back to her side of the court and serves. Arthur returns it with little trouble. Neither of them are particularly good at tennis, really, so their volley lasts a good while as they take easy shots, mostly focusing on keeping it in the lines. The longer they play, though, the more Arthur tries to make trick shots.

He lands a couple of good backhands, hits one right down the line that she barely catches, returns one of her shots and it bounces weirdly so that she almost misses it. And when a point is finally scored after about ten minutes of back and forth, it’s Arthur’s point: he shoots the ball across the whole court and Amicia’s backhand isn’t fast enough.

Arthur whoops loudly and bounces on his toes. “Nice,” she says, gasping.

“One to nil,” he cries.

“It’s one-love, actually.”

He stops cheering himself and they both turn to see Mélie and Arthur have returned from the library; him with his arms full of books, and her leaning on the wire fence around the court.

“You both suck,” she continues. “Don’t give up your day jobs.”

Arthur pulls a face but Amicia just laughs. Mélie and Lucas sit on the bench outside the court for the next forty minutes while they practice. Neither of them will be joining a team or anything, but it’s fun to bounce back and forth, and really, she thinks, that’s what matters.

\--

It snows for the first time in at least four years, that winter in mid-December. The instant there is a break in the fall, Amicia grabs her father and all but drags him to the store. Luckily for her, Robert is the sort of father who dotes on his daughter and will indulge her eccentricities; at least for a little while.

But when they’re actually _at_ the store and he’s watching her scurrying around like a madwoman, he asks with a soft smile, “What’s this all about, Amicia?”

She pauses in the act of selecting a brand of flour to look at him. “It’s Mélie and Arthur’s birthday this weekend. I promised we’d make a cake.”

“Don’t they have plans?”

“Probably not.”

He folds his arms. “You know it’s nearly Christmas, right? Their parents are sure to have something in store.”

“I don’t think so. They would’ve said something.”

Robert lifts an eyebrow at the same time his lips twitch up. “As long as you don’t want to try and organise a big party for them. Your mother is having enough of a conniption trying to get food ready for Christmas.”

“It’s alright, dad,” she says, settling on a brand of flour and tossing it in the basket. “We’re just going to make a cake, maybe watch some movies.” She thinks. “I wanted to get them presents but I don’t know what they’d like.”

He huffs a laugh, hefts the basket into the crook of his elbow and squeezes her shoulder with his free hand. “Maybe an IOU, then.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not very imaginative, dad.”

“Perhaps, but at least you’ll know they get something they like.”

Amicia spends the rest of the time at the store musing on that and in the end she buys two birthday cards, inside which she scrawls a stupid little platitude and a bit of a joke IOU message. Robert just smiles at her.

\--

Mélie pries the flap of the card open and immediately starts laughing. “Happy thirteenth birthday, it better be lucky?” Her eyes twinkle as she meets Amicia’s gaze. Arthur also breaks into cackles when he sees his. “Princess, we’re fourteen today.”

Her eyes shoot wide open. “What? No!”

They follow her into the kitchen where Beatrice is getting baking supplies out of the cupboards for them, a recipe already spread across one bench, Hugo holding tightly onto her pant legs. She looks up when she hears them, says hello, happy birthday, and then steps carefully back into the living room, scooping Hugo up as she goes. Lucas didn’t want to get in the way of the baking, so he’s in charge of music selection, perched on a stool in the dining room watching over the island. He’s also frowning slightly at Mélie’s statement.

“Yes,” Mélie insists. “Dad forgot to enrol us in school, so we had to wait another year to start first grade.”

“He _forgot_?” Lucas asks, incredulous.

“Well, yeah,” Arthur says, shrugging. Mélie picks through the ingredients, wrinkles her nose. “He _forgets_ our birthday every year so it’s no surprise he forgot this.”

“Sometimes I think the only reason he enrolled us at all is because then he didn’t have to look after us all day every day, you know?” Mélie grumbles, picking up a packet of almond slivers. “You put this in cake?”

“It’s optional,” Amicia replies, eyes not leaving Arthur. “Sorry, how are you so okay with your dad forgetting your birthday?”

“It’s our normal, princess,” Mélie tells her drolly. “After mum left…” she shrugs, “well… dad’s never been very attentive.”

“And we prefer it that way,” Arthur adds. “His attention isn’t… hm.” That last part he says so quietly Amicia thinks she probably wasn’t meant to hear it, so she doesn’t ask what he means.

Amicia huffs. “Well.” She steps over to Mélie and takes one of her hands, reaches out and grabs one of Arthur’s too. “_I_ won’t forget.”

They swap glances and then Arthur pulls his hand free, lifts his card, asks, “What’s IOU?”

“You never give any hint what kind of thing you’d like as a present so I figured this way you could tell me what you want at some point and it’d be like… I owe you a present. You name something and I’ll get it.”

Mélie starts laughing, an honest sound from low in her chest. “That’s brave of you, Amicia. What if we ask for something stupid?”

“Like what?” Lucas asks.

“Like…” Mélie trails off, but Arthur finishes.

“Like a fancy car or, _ooh_, a boat!”

Lucas hums. “Maybe just ask for reasonable things.”

“There’s no fun in that.” Arthur smiles when he speaks and there’s still a glitter in Mélie’s eyes that speaks of trouble, maybe she already has something in mind.

She squeezes Amicia’s hand. “So how do we make a cake, anyway?”

\--

They barely manage to make a cake through the laughter of getting it wrong and Arthur misunderstanding what kind of spoon is what. Mélie adds the wrong amount of eggs and it comes out all runny. Mostly what they make is a mess.

But both of them smiles so much that Amicia doesn’t even mind when Beatrice calls, “You’re cleaning that up!” from the lounge.

And the funny thing is? Neither Arthur or Mélie seems to mind cleaning up much. Mélie even lifts a thumb to swipe at the flour that’s ended up across Amicia’s cheek. It’s soft and warm and the whole afternoon is just… _nice_.

\--

Their father doesn’t come to pick them up and the snow starts in again as the sun begins to set, so even though Laurentius collects Lucas after dinner, the twins are left with nowhere to go and no way to get there even if they did.

“You can stay the night,” Beatrice says, looking out into the gathering dark. “It’s too cold to be walking. Can I call your father?”

They swap a look that holds more significance than Amicia can decipher. “I mean,” Arthur mutters, “you _can_, but he’s probably asleep.”

“At six in the evening?” Robert asks.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Mélie sighs. “He’ll be asleep on the couch by now.”

Beatrice and Robert both seem to know what that means, but Amicia doesn’t. All she knows is that her parents fetch extra blankets from the high cupboard and let her drag the spare mattresses together on the floor of the living room so they can have a proper sleepover and that’s the _best_ thing.

While Arthur is in the bathroom, Amicia sits with her back to the wall watching Mélie settle herself down onto the mattress. They end up facing each other, she leans against the base of the chest of drawers, and their legs extend into the same space so Mélie can prop one heel up on Amicia’s knee.

“Hey, Amicia?”

She looks up from her study of her darker skin against Mélie’s pale leg. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. For today.”

“It’s nothing. Really.”

Mélie eyes _burn_ when she meets them, intense in a way that makes her skin prickle. “_No_, don’t play it off like it’s nothing. This is the best birthday either of us have ever had.”

Amicia’s face heats weirdly and her nose crinkles. She doesn’t know what the heaviness in her chest is, what the lightness in her stomach could be, why she feels so _warm_ suddenly in spite of the still-falling snow. Her nose crinkles. “I _hate_ that.” At Mélie’s curious expression she explains, “That something so silly as baking a cake and eating popcorn is a good birthday. Lucas and I will have to come up with a much better plan for next year.”

And Mélie _laughs_. It’s not the deep one from earlier, but not her fake one, or the one she uses sarcastically to deflect conversation; this is softer somehow and the warmth in Amicia’s ribs flickers a bit brighter in response.

“Sure, princess. Whatever you say.”

But when Arthur comes back in from the bathroom, head damp, and flops down beside his sister, Mélie pats the spot on her other side and Amicia curls up beside her. They watch movies until their eyelids droop and they fall asleep half-way through some dumb pirate zombie movie Arthur wanted to watch. When she wakes up, this time it’s Mélie’s head on her shoulder.

\--

Amicia suffers through two awful conversations with her parents after that. The first, from her mother, starts with: “So… Arthur.”

Her hackles lift before Beatrice has even properly seated herself on the couch. But Amicia supposes that intro gets the job done because she puts down her textbook and squints at her mother warily.

“What about him?”

Beatrice takes a sip of her tea, making pointed eye contact over the rim. “You and Lucas have always been close.” Now _there’s_ a tangent. “I suppose I expected something to change between the two of you as you got older. But Arthur seems nice too; I’d like to get to know him better.”

It takes a second.

Two.

Then Amicia’s nose wrinkles up. “Oh, _mum_, _no_. Are you asking if I’m… _dating Arthur_?”

The moment those words are out of her mouth her brain rewinds a little further and snags on Beatrice’s words about Lucas. Her face crunches up further at the realisation her mother thought she’d date Lucas.

Beatrice just smiles. “Well, I _was_, I feel like you’ve answered it perfectly.”

“_Good_. I’m not dating _anyone_.” She hesitates and then tags on the end, “And I’m pretty sure Arthur and Cecile are together… somehow.”

“The girl from your form class,” Beatrice hums, “yes, I remember her. How come she doesn’t come by as much anymore?”

Amicia shrugs, relaxing a little. “She made some other friends and they don’t hang out with us.”

“That’s a shame. Do you not get along with them?”

“They’re… fine.” She shrugs again. “I don’t know. Guess I just prefer to spend my time with the friends I’ve got.”

Beatrice smiles, stands, holds her tea close to her chest. “You always were a lot like your father in that respect.” As she turns to leave, she rests a gentle hand on Amicia’s shoulder, doesn’t give her a chance to ask what that means.

Amicia watches her head back to Hugo’s room, surprised that her mother pays enough attention to her life to see any of this.

\--

At least _that_ conversation with her mother wasn’t as awkward as the puberty one. _Terrible_.

\--

When her father swings into her bedroom on Christmas Eve, she’s got her headphones on watching a movie on her laptop, so she doesn’t hear him. And so obviously Robert taps his fingers across her shoulder softly and she shrieks, jumps, nearly knocks the laptop off her desk.

“Dad! What the hell!”

He laughs his deep booming laugh but sobers quickly enough after that. “Sorry, Amicia. Couldn’t help myself.” He sinks slowly onto the edge of her bed, fingers curling in a strangely deliberate way over his knees. “I wanted to ask you something…”

Amicia lifts her finger and waves it at him warningly. “Don’t. If you’re here to ask if I’m dating Arthur too, I _swear_ I will walk out right now.”

Robert’s features crease in that soft way he has when he’s on the verge of laughing, but there’s a sad cast to it now, something she hadn’t expected. He motions vaguely with a hand, “No, no. I just…” He exhales heavily, scratches at his beard in thought. “I heard what Mélie and Arthur said about their father forgetting their birthday, their mother leaving them. Are they…?”

He doesn’t finish and Amicia isn’t sure where he was going, so she prompts, “Are they _what_, dad?”

He huffs again. “Are they _okay_? From what they said, it doesn’t seem like they have the best home life, honey.”

“I…” Her mouth works but nothing else happens.

Robert’s brow furrows then, it’s not an expression he wears a great deal; at least not where she’s ever seen, but it holds enough gravity that she swallows. “Make sure you check in with them, alright? I get they probably don’t want to talk about it, but…”

Her jaw creaks while she processes what he’s said. “I will, dad,” but she hesitates before asking, “If they… need somewhere to stay…”

He stands, crosses towards her, runs his knuckles down her cheek. “They are _always_ welcome here if they need it.”

Amicia isn’t expecting that answer (isn’t expecting this odd, niggling thought that burrows into the depths of her mind and wonders if their father hurts them somehow, if he’s not as gentle and kind as hers), so it hits her with a bit of shock. She takes his hand and tucks her face into his stomach.

“Thanks, dad. I’ll make sure to tell them.”

Robert strokes a hand along her hair. “Everyone deserves to feel safe, Amicia. They should know that includes them, too.”

\--

Amicia has always sent her friends texts on special days – birthdays, holidays, anything – even if she’ll see them; another thing she picked up from years of knowing Lucas. But this year it feels like she’s making A Point™, especially when she texts Mélie and Arthur.

She gets fairly typical responses from both of them. Arthur sends her a bunch of thematic emojis; and Mélie’s is marked as read for like, four hours, before a reply comes through that just says, _merr chrimmas to u too, princess_.

\--

Arthur corners her at her locker the very first day back after the Christmas break. He’s wearing his old hoodie with a school sweater underneath and a very intense expression. Mélie shadows him, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket, trying (but not _too_ hard) to hide a stupid, crooked smirk in her scarf.

“You have to help me.”

“Oh,” she says, closing her locker and leaning on the door. “And good morning to you, too, Arthur. Yes, I’m thrilled to be back, potential snowstorm notwithstanding.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re a girl.”

Mélie’s smile ticks up several notches and it seems she’s having a real hard time containing her laughter.

“You _are_ observant,” Amicia tells him flatly. “So is your _sister_.”

He waves a hand in Mélie’s direction dismissively. “She’s a jerk. What’s your ideal date?”

Amicia tucks her books a little more securely under one arm. “I’m not going on a date with you, Arthur.”

And _that’s_ what prompts Mélie to burst into a fit of cackles. Arthur shoves her into the nearest locker.

“Obviously.”

His mouth is open to say more but Mélie manages to contain her laughter long enough to interrupt. “He finally asked Cecile out over the break and she said yes but now he doesn’t know what to do.”

She blinks. “Oh. Well. I don’t know why you’re asking _me_. Why not Ana?”

He pulls a face. “I can’t ask Cecile’s _best friend_. They’ll talk.”

“He wants Cecile to think he came up with something awesome all by himself,” Mélie summarises.

“Whatever.”

“So dinner, movies, picnics are out of the question?” Amicia asks sweetly.

“Duh.”

“I suggested the faire, but he said…”

“It’s too far away,” Arthur whines, completing the sentence.

“Well… what if you go with her this weekend to Ana’s soccer game?”

He squints. “Does that count as a date?”

“I’m sure it does if you buy her food or something.” Amicia shrugs. “Like I said: you’re asking the wrong person.”

Arthur throws his hands up in the air and storms off, grumbling, “I’m friends with the two most _useless_ girls on the planet.”

She and Mélie share a smile before they follow.

\--

The funny thing is, Arthur does exactly what she’d suggested that very weekend and it goes swimmingly. Mélie and Amicia also attend, mostly for moral support in case his pretty-much-a-date goes pear-shaped. They leave before the match is over only because Mélie receives a text message (from Cecile’s phone but clearly written by Arthur) that says, _get lost_.

Mélie rolls her eyes but tugs Amicia from the stands. They spend the afternoon with Lucas instead.

\--

Lucas jumps dramatically when someone slams a stack of books on their library table, he very nearly falls off the chair. “Holy…”

When Amicia looks up, it’s Cecile. By the look on her face, she’s not angry, and the book slamming was all theatrics. “Where’s Arthur?”

“I… don’t know? He probably went home.”

“I thought you all did study here after school?”

She shakes her head. “Not every day, Cici.”

Her shoulders slump. “Oh. Well. Do you have his number?”

“Why don’t you have it?” Lucas asks.

“He didn’t give it to me.”

Lucas frowns, brows pinching together in a way that suggests he’s working through a particularly stubborn problem. He often does struggle with interpersonal matters. “But… If you went on a date… shouldn’t you have each other’s numbers?”

“You’d think.” There’s a wry tilt to her lips. “But he said he didn’t know it off the top of his head. Didn’t have it on him, either.”

“Mélie has a phone, right?” Lucas asks her. “She texts me sometimes?”

“Yes. I’ll ask her later.” She looks back up at Cecile. “Will you survive without Arthur for a while?”

Cecile rolls her eyes. “Of _course_. I was just worried why I hadn’t heard from him. Normally he’s all about sending silly emoji messages.”

“Ugh,” Lucas sighs, “I _know_.” He holds up his phone and shows them a message from Arthur. “He keeps sending me the calculator emoji and I _don’t_ know why.”

“He’s unknowable,” Cecile says, laughing.

She sticks around for a while, but even though she doesn’t spend as much time with them anymore, she’s still perfectly capable of detecting when Lucas is getting a little frustrated about interruptions to his study time.

\--

Amicia gets a text when she’s half-way to sleep that evening. Groaning, she flops over to see who it is that would dare disturb her this late at night.

Of course: it’s Mélie.

_what u want arthur for?_

She taps out a reply without really thinking: _cici hasn’t heard from him and neither has lucas. he alright?_

The little typing bubbles bounce for a long time. Either Mélie is writing an essay or she’s having trouble deciding what to say; maybe there’s something she doesn’t want to share. Amicia has almost convinced herself to tell Mélie not to say anything she doesn’t want to when she gets a reply.

_dad threw his phone at the wall. it's cactus. he's ordered a new one for cheap but it’ll be a few days_

Amicia bites her bottom lip. She probably should’ve expected their father would be involved. _is he okay?_

_yea, arthur’s fine. just grumpy. tell his gf not to get too fussed_

She doesn’t put any real emphasis on the ‘girlfriend’ part, but Amicia can still hear the teasing lilt she gets sometimes all the same. It makes her smile.

_glad he’s good. what'd your dad break it for anyway?_

_you get three guesses_

_cici?_

_bam. got it in one_

_do i win anything?_

Again, the bubbles bounce for a while before Mélie replies with, _what do you want_?

The question hits harder than she think it ought to and she sits there in silence, room lit only by her phone screen, thinking. Then she says, _come with me to the faire in two weeks? lucas doesn’t wanna go_

There’s another lengthy pause but when Mélie answers, she says, _sure, princess_, and that feels like a success to her.

\--

And she only lied a little bit: Lucas has never been a fan of places that are so crowded and noisy, but he likes going in the evenings when it’s softer, they just haven’t been in a few years because he’s so easily consumed by study. Amicia had been going to suggest they take a Saturday evening off, just the three of them (Arthur probably has plans with Cecile, and they don’t need to have a ‘too many wheels’ issue), but this time, she thinks maybe she _won’t_ talk Lucas into keeping her company.

(Which is just as well, because when she mentions it the next morning, he _groans_ and begs off. His relieved look when Mélie says she’ll be the one ‘tagging along’ and he’s safe should be a little offensive, probably, but it’s not.)

\--

The local faire is usually accompanied by a subtle increase in temperature, a herald of spring to come and all that stuff; it’s even highlighted as a selling point to get people to attend. But that’s _usually_; this year – even several days in – it’s thick coat, scarf and beanie weather.

Mélie has her chin tucked as far into her scarf as she can get it, the collar of her leather jacket popped, beanie pushing her fringe further into her eyes so that the standout feature is her nose, red from the chill. Even though she grumbled when Amicia hooked their arms together, she refuses to pull her hands from her pockets to do anything about it. It’s honestly the most adorable surly look Amicia has ever set eyes on.

“I can’t believe you dragged me out in this,” Mélie huffs, breath pluming in front of her. It’s only about the eightieth time she’s said something to a similar effect. “We could be sitting on the couch watching some dumb cooking show, but no.”

Amicia brightens immediately, smile ticking up. When the breeze turns, she has to lift a hand to adjust her knitted cap before replying, “You’d watch dumb cooking shows with me?”

Mélie turns sharply against the wind. “Yeah. If it got me out of the cold…” She wrinkles her nose up. “If we cooked something warm to eat, then extra-yeah.”

She pulls Mélie to a halt off to the side of the path. “If we go back to my house right now and make mug brownies will you promise to come to the carnival in autumn?”

There’s something soft in Mélie’s eyes when she stares at Amicia. For a long moment, they’re just standing there like idiots in the cold, and then Mélie pulls her a mite closer and her lips curl up into a smile that’s just as soft as her eyes – nothing crooked and cheeky about it – and says, “Sure, Amicia.”

\--

They’ve gotten better at cooking things since the birthday cake fiasco. Their mug brownies sort of spill gracelessly out of the mugs and onto the plates and they do still make a huge mess (Robert says, “I cannot believe you made a mess that big for something so small,” when he wanders through the kitchen while they’re cleaning up), but they have a lot of fun doing it. Somehow, it’s Mélie this time who ends up with flour on her face and in her hair and her nose crinkles up when Amicia brushes her fingers across her cheek to wipe it away, but she smiles and that’s what matters.

Brownies in hand, they curl up on the couch under one giant knitted blanket, leaning against opposite armrests.

“We don’t have to watch cooking shows,” Amicia says, while Mélie selects the most convenient food channel.

“I promised,” is her response.

“Yes, but you can pick something else.”

She stares at Amicia over her messy mug and that same something _soft_ twinkles in her eyes again. “How about a compromise, then?” she offers, clicking the channel over to some history documentary.

Amicia rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t have to be educational, you know.”

“I know. The next program is about aliens.”

She rolls her eyes _harder_. “Of course.”

Mélie just smiles a little wider. “Hey, Amicia?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For all of this.” Mélie hunches her shoulders. “It’s nice to hang out with… well, I don’t know.”

Under the blanket, Amicia uses her toes to prod Mélie in the hip. “It’s nice to hang out with another girl.”

“Well,” her smile twists a little into something wry, but not upset, “I was gonna say just to have a friend who isn’t _Arthur_. But… yeah. That, too.”

Amicia feels her smile lift higher and doesn’t know why. She also doesn’t know why she says, “Hey, speaking of Arthur. Let’s take photos of our brownies to send him.”

“Why?”

She’s already leaning forward to rest her mug on the blanket over their legs. “I bet he’ll be jealous.” And Mélie just laughs and joins her. “Oh. Did his new phone arrive? This will be pointless otherwise.”

“Yeah. He got it just like two days ago.” Amicia takes a few pictures and then Mélie speaks again, “I’m gonna send him the photo,” and snaps one too. “I feel like this requires a bit of the old ‘asshole sister’ touch.”

Amicia gets a ping when Mélie sends it to their group chat with the comment, _not wishing you were here_.

They get another notification a while later from him. It’s a photo of Arthur with Cecile at the faire, cheeks and noses pink from the cold, both pulling horrified expressions. He adds, _u suck_, and they both burst out laughing.

\--

“Lucas.” A tidy stack of books smacks onto the table loud enough to get the librarian to stick her head around the end of a shelf and glare in their general direction. “Help.”

“Mélie,” Lucas says in the same deadpan tone she just used on him. “Be more specific.”

She sinks down into the seat beside him, leans right into his personal bubble until it makes him uncomfortable and he shuffles his creaky chair away from her. “I need your assistance in finishing my biology report thing.” She pauses, or maybe hesitates, hard to say; then adds, “Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” He shuffles the stack of books out of the way and drags her paper closer so he can read it. “Where are you up to?”

“Cici and I pretty much bullshitted our way through it,” Mélie tells him with a wave of her hand, “so the discussion could use a review and I guess maybe just tell me if something’s missing?”

He hums, already poring over the text, brows pinching together slowly. “Did you have any predictions?”

“Cici has them, why?”

“You should include your assumptions somewhere to lend weight to your hypothesis,” he mumbles, flicking the page to check something on the back. “Yes. Make sure you edit that to be clearer, too.” He blinks, glances up only long enough to ask, “Are you coming to the movies this weekend?”

Mélie’s shoulders tip forward, expression pulling down sourly. “No. Arthur and I are… well, not _grounded_, dad would have to care more for that. But… I don’t know, I guess we’re being kept home this weekend for chores, probably. Have fun though.”

Amicia ducks her head so she can catch Mélie’s eyes. “We can postpone for another weekend if you want?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Dad’s a jerk, he probably just doesn’t want us to hang out with friends.”

“Your dad _is_ a jerk,” Amicia agrees fiercely. “We’ll go see something later. When he’s not being all controlling and stupid, okay?”

“I’ll hold you to that, princess.”

“So.” Lucas blinks. “It’ll just be us?”

“Yes, just you and me, Lucas. So no trying to pick a genre to satisfy everyone this time.”

“Yeah,” Mélie says, folding her arms across the desk and smiling, it’s her usual sharp and teasing when she looks at Lucas and then softens in that strange indefinable way around her eyes when she looks at Amicia. “You can just watch something nerdy and call it a day.”

“If you’re going to insult us, Mélie, maybe we’ll go and see that shark movie you’ve been raving about all week,” Lucas says, drolly. “Or I’ll just stop checking your assessment.”

Her hands fly towards him, eyes widening, but she stops short of touching him. “I take it back, Lucas, I’m your biggest fan.”

“Lies,” he says, tone bordering on sing-song. “But fine. Do you have anything else to work on while I finish?”

Mélie heaves a great big sigh. “Yeah. I should finish my history essay.”

“Have you revised for the literature exam?”

In the process of opening her notebook, Mélie drops her head onto the desk. “Stop _reminding_ me of things like this.”

“Arthur’s going to meet us here tomorrow afternoon,” Amicia tells her, skipping a few pages in her biology textbook to find the page she needs to finish her own paper. “And we’re all going to do some revision for that. Unless you’re not interested anymore?”

Mélie rolls her head around on her arm so she can fix Amicia with a truly forlorn expression, lower lip protruding in something that nears a pout and everything. “Can we go out for dinner or something after?”

“Grandpa was going to cook a roast for dinner,” Lucas offers, “you could come and eat with us?”

She slouches upright again. “Well, any free feed is fine by me. Sure, I’ll be here. You can help explain to me how motifs and extended metaphors play into the whatevers.”

“Of course.”

“Literature is open book, right?”

“Yes.”

Mélie’s gaze sharpens somewhat when she swings from Lucas back to Amicia this time. “Can you help me turn my copy of the book into that colourful rainbow like yours is?”

Amicia just laughs. “Yes.”

“Why colour code them? Or do you just like rainbows?”

“It’s a bit of both. But you can’t write notes in the book so coding the markers helps remind me what each quote is important for.”

“_Oh_.” Mélie’s face scrunches up into something horrified, aghast. “Now _that’s_ nerdy, princess.”

“What can I say?” she teases, something warm and sparkling filling her eyes and chest, pure reaction to the softness in Mélie’s tone. “I’m a nerd.”

Mélie joins her in laughing.

\--

Because Lucas is Lucas, Amicia’s dad drops them off at the cinema twenty minutes early. It’s not crowded, but it gives them plenty of time to buy tickets, dither on buying food and eventually commit to sharing a box of popcorn. Buying that popcorn is pretty much the only exception Lucas makes to the ‘no buying food from cinema concessions’ rule. They’re too expensive for him, and Amicia has long since accepted that and will stuff her pockets with snacks anyway.

The thing is, Lucas has never been very good at lying or hiding his thoughts or anything, so if something is bothering him – even if he doesn’t outright _state_ it – it’s pretty easy to tell. And even though she says _nothing_, he just gives off this vibe the entire time they queue for tickets, discuss snacks, line up and enter the theatre. His leg bounces in the dark even though his hands are folded neatly in his lap.

Eventually, she rounds on him. “Alright, Lucas. Out with it.”

His jaw drops open a little. “Huh?”

“What’s on your mind? You’ve been distracted and jittery all morning.”

“Hm? Have I? Oh, sorry.”

Amicia lays her hand over his knee. “If something’s the matter, Lucas, you know you can tell me, right? You can tell me anything.”

He doesn’t beat around the bush, Lucas never was one for that kinda thing. “Laurentius thought this was a date. It’s not… is it?”

She smiles at him, squeezes his knee. “No, Lucas. It’s not a date. I love you, just not in a dating kind of way.”

“Oh.” Air rushes out of him in a great jet and it’s like strings holding his shoulders square are suddenly cut in the way he slumps forward. “Good. No offence, Amicia, but I don’t want to date you.”

“None taken, Lucas.” She takes her hand back. “If it’s any consolation, my mum thought we were going to go on a date, too.”

Even in the dim light, she can see his eyebrows shoot up. “Past tense?”

Amicia smiles in a way that definitely benefitted from exposure to Mélie’s cheeky smirk. “Yes, past tense. First, she thought you, then Arthur. It wasn’t a fun conversation.”

He blinks. The lights on the screen fade up while his eyes are closed, and the effect is almost surreal; eyes open, eyes closed, eyes open. “Huh. Parents, I guess.”

“I guess.”

After that, Lucas stops speaking altogether. Even though the movie is preceded by at least twenty minutes of ads and trailers, he can’t _stand_ when people talk through it and she can respect that. Arthur can never stop whispering during the previews.

(That doesn’t stop her brain from picking up immediately where it left off post credits on the ‘why do all the adults think I’m dating Lucas’ track.)

\--

When Amicia gives Mélie the overview of the sci-fi movie they saw on the weekend she concludes that while special effects were great, the story and characters were pretty lacklustre. Mélie accuses her of trying to make her feel better, but she also grumbles and says something to the effect of _at least she won’t have to waste two hours on it now_, so she’s not really upset at all and is just being dramatic.

It makes Amicia smile on her way to biology.

\--

Her birthday this year passes without any fanfare. It’s just the four of them – Arthur had to cancel plans with Cecile because he’d forgotten her birthday, but that’s fine. He stays for dinner and then she chases him out to have a passable evening with Cecile.

“It’s your birthday,” he whines, standing on her front porch, one foot already down a step. “I don’t mind, Cici will just have to live with it.”

Amicia laughs, gives him a playful shove. “_Go_, Arthur. You’ll see me at school tomorrow anyway.”

He grins, bounces back up the step to wrap her in a quick hug. “Thanks. I’ll bring you a cupcake or something.”

“Whatever. Just have a good night, alright?”

“You got it.” When he lets her go, he offers a mock salute before tearing off down the driveway. It occurs to her that it’ll be nice when at least one of them can drive because as it is, Arthur and Mélie especially do _a lot_ of (frequently) impractical walking. Then she shakes it free and goes back to enjoying her birthday.

Even thought it’s a weeknight this year, Laurentius gave Lucas permission to spend the night and – in Mélie’s words – her father ‘doesn’t give a shit’ about where she is. So the three of them pile together on the living room floor and eat chocolate until they pass out.

Perhaps none of them are especially awake the next day at school, but it was well worth it. Arthur even keeps his promise and brings her a cupcake.

\--

“So?”

Mélie has her arms hooked through the coloured bars of the roundabout, her feet planted wide in the wood chip so she can swing it from side to side. She doesn’t look to be actually interested in spinning around, more like she’s just there to be _somewhere,_ and when she looks up at Amicia’s voice her expression is this weird kind of blank. Eyes glazed over, mouth set in a line (her resting bitch face), every muscle slack except for her legs pushing the ring back and forth.

She blinks a few times before focusing on the present and when she finally realises who it is, emotion blooms across her face, down to the set of her shoulders, the straightening of her lower back. It’s nice, really, to be greeted in such a warm way even if it is nonverbal.

“Hey, princess. What brings you to this crappy little park?” Mélie blinks again, brain at last catching up to everything else and she adds, “Wait, so _what_?”

Amicia takes the last step over and drops onto the roundabout, pulling her legs up and crossing them neatly so Mélie can keep twisting them to the sides. “It’s summer holidays now,” she begins, “our results are in – I know because I got mine yesterday – so… After all your worrying, how did you do?”

Mélie rolls her eyes with her entire body, shoulders lifting and falling in tandem. “Trust you to open with an academia question.”

Amicia just waits.

“I passed.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Did you come all the way over here to ask me that?”

“No.” Amicia takes a beat to shuffle around until she can lean somewhat comfortably against one of the railings. “I’m here because Lucas got a text from Arthur this morning. And that meant that you’d have no one to entertain you with him off hanging out with Cici. So.” She waves a hand at herself, Mélie, the wider park, a vague and non-specific motion. “Here I am.”

Mélie’s lips twitch up further, but there’s a twist to them now that Amicia can’t figure out no matter how hard she stares. “And what about the nerdrocket?”

“He’s fine.” She unfolds her legs, lifts her knees so she can rest her chin on top. “How are _you_?”

“Me?” She blinks, her posture pulling away, closing over in that way she has of physically announcing that she’s erecting metaphorical walls around herself. “Same as I was on Friday, why?”

“Because you once accused me of being the kind of person who would abandon you,” Amicia reminds her bluntly. “And your brother, who has been the one constant in your life, now has a girlfriend to occupy his time.” She shrugs – an awkward gesture in her position but she makes it work. “Just didn’t want you falling into some hole where you convince yourself no one cares about you and everyone will leave.”

Mélie’s whole body contorts inwards with every word she says; pulling towards her chest, trying to conceal her whole form within the safety of her ribcage. “I’m fine.” That’s what she says with her words, but the hollow glint in her eyes says, _I was right, everyone leaves_.

And it’s weird how much easier Mélie has gotten to read over the last few years; things that used to be an enigma, a suit of armour to protect her from all harm, now glare brightly in the light of Amicia’s knowledge and point out all the fragile ways Mélie has to fall apart. So, she shifts away from the railing, scoots closer until she can lean against Mélie’s shoulder, hook her fingers into the crook of her elbow and draw her away from the bar she’s looped around, wind their hands together.

“We’re not going _anywhere_,” she says firmly. “Least of all your brother.”

Mélie scoffs.

So Amicia adds, “We’re fourteen, Mélie. The chances of him and Cici staying together and driving a wedge between the two of you is highly unlikely.”

“Do you have a statistic for that?”

She can feel Mélie’s voice through her throat but she can also feel the way she swallows, how tightly she’s holding to Amicia’s hand.

“You could always ask Lucas if stats are what you’re after. I’m sure he’s got something.”

She’s rewarded with a wet laugh and the weight of Mélie leaning into her as well, relaxing somewhat, anxieties relieved for the moment.

“He’s your brother,” she murmurs, “I’ve been told that’s a life sentence.” She squeezes a little tighter to Mélie’s hand. “And Lucas and I aren’t leaving either. Just in case you’d forgotten.”

Mélie squeezes too and Amicia ignores the tightness to her voice, the one suggesting tears, when she says, “I’m trying not to forget anymore.”

\--

Arthur and Cecile do _not_ break up over summer, despite Lucas’ statistic being something in the vein of how teen romances have an average length of about a month. A milestone they’ve blown past by this point.

What they _do_ manage though, is to reunite the original gang; the five of them. They go to the mall (Mélie hates it), the go to the skate park (Cecile is bored out of her mind), they go for a walk through the council woodlands (everyone but Lucas and Amicia complain until they stop for ice cream). It’s messy but it’s honest, it’s hard to agree on anything but none of their whining is heartfelt, it’s too hot to do anything most days so they sit under the trees along the river but they’re _together_.

They sit under their usual tree on the last Saturday before the new school year begins, Mélie and Amicia sharing a patch of bark, Lucas sprawled out on a towel he brought to read on legs kicking in the air behind him, Arthur and Cecile lying on their backs in the grass staring past the edges of the leaves to the clouds, pointing out planes. It’s lazy and sticky and Mélie’s in real danger of falling asleep on Amicia’s shoulder again, but it’s nice that it’s just _them_.

Mélie’s head has just dropped to Amicia’s arm when Cecile sits up and says, “Wait. What electives are we all in this year? Will I have any with you guys?” Mélie jerks upright at her sharp tone, startled back to wakefulness, but not complete alertness if the way she grabs at Amicia’s elbow is anything to go by.

“Art.” That’s the only word Mélie says, tactless, grainy from her near-sleep-state; then she tilts to the side further until she can close her eyes again.

“That’s not helpful, Mélie,” Cecile says.

“I picked art too,” Amicia agrees. “History and business.”

She can see even though he’s upside down when Arthur scrunches his nose up. “Why history? Boring. Drama, IT and graphics.”

“Chemistry, physics and accounting,” Lucas chimes in without looking up from his book.

“Oh.” Cecile’s face falls. “I guess not then. I picked music, geography and German.”

Even though she’s trying to sleep, Amicia can feel how Mélie’s face crinkles. “You picked a _language_. Silliness.” (Probably a fair assessment.)

“What are your other two electives?” Lucas asks, still without looking up.

Mélie yawns, her jaw cracks. “IT and history. Duh.”

“Maybe you’ll have classes with the others, Cici,” Amicia offers. “What are they doing?”

She shrugs. “Ana’s doing music with me, and Louis picked German, but I’m not sure about Lucien.”

“Well at least you’ll have company, then.”

“That’s fair. And we can all hang out at lunch!”

Amicia smiles and concurs but privately she agrees with Mélie’s muttered, “Don’t count on it.”

\--

La troisième starts with a lecture about making sure they take their electives as seriously as their compulsory subjects. It’s a repeat from the previous year, so Amicia doesn’t take it too much to heart that Arthur and Mélie spend the whole assembly making gagging faces and fake yawns.

And, of course, first thing’s first when it comes to a new year: the ritual of comparing time tables. Overlap is fairly constant, Amicia has her two matching electives with Mélie, business by herself, maths with Lucas, and literature with Arthur and Lucien (she learns this later from Cecile). What she doesn’t learn from Cecile – doesn’t learn until the rest of the class has filed into her first-thing-Monday-morning business class, is she _also_ has this lesson with Lucien. Only there’s no buffer here and honestly, she isn’t sure how she feels about that.

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the chair beside her.

Amicia looks up sharply from the notebook she’s busy writing dates and titles in to meet his warm, even smile. He’s grown his hair out since she last saw him, longer and a little floppier in the front and his chin has a fine scratch just on the underside, it tells her plenty of what he got up to over the holidays. “Good morning. Cici didn’t tell me we’d have this together too.”

He shrugs and that’s the gesture that draws her eyes to how he’s starting to fill out his sweater in a strangely pleasing way. He has broad shoulders. “She probably didn’t know.” Lucien gives her a friendly elbow to her side. “Better than being alone, eh?”

“That’s probably the most widely accepted belief, yes.”

Lucien laughs even though it isn’t funny so much as it is just a droll come-back. “Gives us a chance to get to know each other better, too.” His smile twitches wider and she’s struck, in that moment, by how different it is to the other smiles she knows.

It’s not the soft and shy like Lucas, not sharp and laughing like Arthur, not slow and crooked like Mélie; Lucien’s is bright but in the way fluorescent lights in hospitals are bright, a calculated kind of bright, a toothpaste ad model. It’s not a _bad_ smile, just different, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I suppose that’s true.”

His smile doesn’t waver, the twinkle in his eyes glitters a little more with her words but it’s not the same as the twinkle Mélie gets, or even Arthur.

Amicia doesn’t know why she’s cataloguing differences, or even why she keeps comparing to the twins (especially after she had to correct her mother about dating Arthur), but it’s what her brain is doing anyway.

“Guess you’ll learn how bad I am at economics,” he says, still with the wide TV-smile. “Managing stuff like this has always stumped me, much to my dad’s dismay.”

She twitches one eyebrow up. “He made you take this class?”

“I wouldn’t say he _made_ me,” Lucien muses, humming the words out slowly. “But he… I guess pressured maybe?”

“Well that’s not the greatest,” she replies with a huff.

“Maybe. Your parents don’t care what you do?”

“I mean… I’m sure they _care_, but they didn’t tell me what to do.”

He breathes a short laugh through his teeth. “Isn’t that something.”

Maybe it is.

\--

Mélie’s face scrunches up in that adorable way she has in art that afternoon. “Ew. You have a class with Lucien? I’m sorry you don’t have a buffer for that.”

Amicia scrawls across her heavy paper, eyes fixed on their hatching activity even though she can feel Mélie’s gaze on her. “He’s not that bad. A little… obnoxious maybe, but pleasant enough.”

“If this is the part where you tell me he’s cute, I might barf. Just so you know.” Mélie lifts her pencil and holds it out vertically as if she expects it to ward off any such words Amicia might dare to speak.

She just laughs. “Well he _is_, I’m not blind, Mélie.”

Her face crinkles further, nose wrinkling right up with the fervour of her distaste. “As your friend, it’s my duty to listen to you gab about boys, I suppose, but I’m not gonna enjoy it.”

“Noted.” She leans across the table to peer at Mélie’s work. “How did you get the lines so nice like that?”

And Mélie shoots her a smile, the crooked one, filled from one quirked corner to the other with warmth and that soft teasing Amicia enjoys so much (not that she’d ever let Mélie know that). “Practice.”

Which is, perhaps unacceptably, how she comes to realise that Mélie doesn’t just doodle in her notebooks to escape doing work, but because she genuinely enjoys art and is quite good at it.

“How come you didn’t tell me you were like… an art prodigy?” Amicia asks softly, leaning her chin in her palm as she watches Mélie sketch out the still life that she is _also_ supposed to be practicing with.

When Mélie does it, the lines swoop with purpose, even the ones that she clearly considers to be misplaced, she simply corrects her line next time and adjusts. Her use of the eraser at her elbow is minimal and her focus is interrupted only by Amicia; her shoulders twitch forward, defensive, and she recognises the movement as Mélie’s ‘I don’t wanna talk about this’ motion.

So she picks up her pencil and goes back to her own wonky vase, featuring fruit. Her pear is lopsided, the bananas are all the wrong size or shape in relation to each other and the apple appears to be sitting on a completely different flat surface than everything else. But it’s _her_ work, and it gives her something to do that isn’t worry about what it is that hurt Mélie this time.

“You know about my dad.”

The whisper comes as a surprise, towards the end of the lesson while they’re putting the finishing touches on their smudged school-worthy-masterpieces. Amicia’s pencil stills on the paper, eyes intent when she looks up. But Mélie is staring vaguely out the window, her pencil held half an inch from the paper, forgotten.

“And about my… learning stuff. I didn’t pick this up because I _wanted_ to, it was all circumstance,” she confesses. “It’s a quiet hobby, not very messy or expensive or requiring parental supervision. I can sit by myself and draw. It kept him away.”

It’s the same reason Arthur confided once about how he got so good at pulling computers apart and fixing them. Tinkering was a thing he could do by himself, something that kept him safe. Amicia’s whole chest contracts improbably, squeezing her heart and lungs in the collapsing cage of her ribs until she can’t breathe.

“That’s lousy,” she eventually says. “He might have put you on this road, but he doesn’t control where you go from here, Mélie.”

Mélie’s eyes blink and she returns from her reverie slowly, her smile arcing up into, first, the cheeky slant, and then into something warmer. “Sometimes you spout the most ridiculous shit, you know that?”

“You and Arthur keep me humble, yes.”

“And you’re welcome for that.”

“Yes, you mean a lot to me.”

And despite her words coming out with a flat note of sarcasm, Mélie has learned to ignore that because she doesn’t mean it. Still, it takes her a while to realise that this is one of those times when Amicia says words she means with a tone she doesn’t, but when she does the warm and crooked smile turns into something wider and at least fourteen times more earnest.

“You’re a nerd.”

Amicia has known Mélie long enough to know that she’s the opposite: words she doesn’t _really_ mean to be insulting in a tone that screams all the stuttering hope in her chest for the world to hear. So she smiles too, wide and bright to match.

(She does _not_ think about how Mélie’s smile is different to Lucien’s in every way the sun is different to dusty, store room lightbulbs. She _doesn’t_.)

\--

(Because she doesn’t _have_ to. It’s something she knows, can feel in her bones, the same way a patch of sun in winter is more satisfying than any indoor lighting can ever hope to be. So perhaps it’s more accurate to say she simply ignores it, doesn’t notice it at all. Attributes it to knowing Mélie better.

It’s _easier_ that way. And high school is hard enough as it is without voluntarily adding complications.)

\--

“So I still have an IOU to cash in, right?”

Arthur sidles up to her locker first thing on a Wednesday morning and his words take a moment to sink in at seven-thirty, but when they do a layer of concern drapes itself across Amicia’s shoulders. His tone and posture and the lopsided smile he shares with Mélie (the same one that’s warmer and more honest than Lucien’s, even on him) don’t _seem_ all that worrisome, but she knows him well enough by this point to be aware of the possibility all the same.

It’s a good sense.

She closes her locker, leans on it with a shoulder and eyes him cautiously. “If you mean your birthday present, then yes. Why?”

“I know exactly what I want for my birthday,” he tells her, voice strained just a tad and eyes wide with something that’s either intent or fear. Either is worrisome, she supposes.

Amicia shakes her head. “I’m not stupid, Arthur. You tell me what it is before I promise anything.”

He grabs her wrist. “I need you to keep Mélie busy and away from our house this Saturday.”

Her mouth purses, eyes squinted, a picture of the general aura of ‘what, why’. “What? Why?” she asks, just in case he didn’t get it from her expression.

“Dad won’t be home, he’s going to the races, and I have to prove to Cici that I do live in a house. And… well, I don’t want my _sister _to be there, you know?”

At first, she absolutely doesn’t, her ‘what, why’ expression abating not at all. Then it clicks. “_Oh_. Right, it’s a date. Okay.” She shrugs. “Sure, Mélie can spend the day at my place. Won’t be very exciting though, Lucas is going to an out of town debate, so it’ll just be the two of us.”

“Make it a girls’ night or something and it’s a deal.” He sticks his hand out, wiggles his fingers, and he’s just being _so_ ridiculous that she laughs and shakes it.

“Fine. But I’m not going to be some kind of personal sister-disposal for you. This is a one-time only, thing.”

“Absolutely, yes. You’re the best, Amicia!” Then he’s tearing off back down the hall and she’s thinking maybe she should’ve extracted a promise to spend time with the rest of them too.

She’s less worried than Mélie that Arthur (or anyone, really) will suddenly lose interest in spending time together, but people _do_. She stares after him a moment, thinking that over, and as such, completely misses when Mélie stops beside her.

“Did I hear you use the words ‘sister-disposal’ or am I imagining things?”

Amicia starts so violently she backs into her locker with a _bang_. “Geez.” Mélie just grins. “Yeah, Arthur wants to hang out with Cici while your dad’s not home this weekend, so he asked if you could spend Saturday at my place.”

Mélie makes this obnoxious thoughtful noise and grumbles, “I suppose there are _worse_ things.”

She scoffs, gives Mélie a playful shove to her shoulder before heading off to their history class. “Whine all you like, we’ll get junk food, order pizza and watch stupid movies. He can have his dumb date.”

There’s a glitter to Mélie’s eyes when she smiles after that to suggest she may have said _just_ the right thing.

\--

Of course, that’s not really how their Saturday goes at all.

Mélie’s knock is perfunctory at best, and she swings inside without waiting for someone to greet her. Hugo is sitting in the living room playing with an assortment of toys and she speaks to him brightly, “Hey, kiddo. Whatcha got?”

Amicia doesn’t hear what he says, but when she sticks her head into the room from the kitchen, she finds Mélie seated cross-legged with him, nodding along as he explains his game and when he hands her a little car, she takes it with the exact amount of gravity required from a four-year-old.

“Hey,” she says softly. Mélie looks up at her voice and her face lights up in this _way_ she has that Amicia has never seen elsewhere. “Bit of a plan change, I’m sorry. We can still do the pizza and movies thing, but my parents had to go out, so we’ll be babysitting. Hope that’s okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” She looks down when Hugo taps on her knee. “Sorry, did I miss something?”

“You have to help the people,” Hugo tells her in his tiny voice, pointing one little finger at the Barbie house filled with various mis-matched toys. “The house is on fire.”

“Right.” And Mélie pushes her over-sized fire engine down the street Hugo has marked out with blocks making siren noises. “How many people are trapped?”

“A hundred.”

She picks the little fireman out of the car and she heaves a big sigh. “Whew. They won’t all fit in the fire truck. Can you call the ambulance?”

Hugo shakes his head. “No. They’re closed on Saturday. You have to call the heli-chopper.”

Amicia stands in the doorway and watches for a little while longer as Hugo directs Mélie on how to rescue the dolls in the house and then swoops his gatling skyterror toy down, spinning the rotors with one little finger and making roaring and heavy breathing sounds. The toy is part dragon, part helicopter, and he explains that the people thought it was the rescue coming to save them, but actually the dragon set the house on fire in the first place and now it’s back. Mélie, to her infinite credit, gasps along with him and makes indoor-voice theatre-screams when the fireman is attacked and even joins him with explosion noises when the water truck explodes (she doesn’t even correct him on it).

She smiles before going back to the kitchen to finish packing the groceries away. Her mum bought salad and store-cooked roast chicken and crackly fresh bread for lunches but it’s already after one, so she heads to the living room to see if Mélie’s even hungry. She finds them, still with the toys all clustered around the house, but none of them are dead and the skyterror is sitting down.

“So did everyone get out alright?” Amicia asks, seating herself beside Mélie.

“Yes,” Hugo tells her. “The dragon had a sore tooth.”

“But he can’t talk,” Mélie explains, tipping a Barbie across the street towards the skyterror. “What with being a dragon and all. So when he tried to ask for help from the dentist lady who lives in the building he set it on fire accidentally.”

“They’re going to have tea!” Hugo concludes brightly, clapping his hands together. “And a picnic!”

“We can have a picnic with them, Hugo, if you’d like,” Amicia tells him. “Mum bought that chicken you like if you want me to make a sandwich.”

“Yes!” he squeals. “Mélie, you should have a picnic with us.”

She laughs, ruffles his hair. “Alright. I’ll help Amicia while you get everyone ready for the picnic, okay?”

“Okay!”

Mélie stands first, pulls Amicia up with her by a hand, but she’s not the one to speak first. “Do you want to have an actual picnic?” Amicia asks, she tugs on Mélie’s hand to draw her to the kitchen and nods out the window. “It’s a nice day. We could sit in the yard, maybe up in the treehouse.”

Her eyes light up. “I don’t think we should take your four-year-old brother up into the treehouse, but all the rest of that sounds fun.”

“Good. Okay.”

They shuffle around the kitchen, bumping into each other and laughing, Mélie asking where stuff lives and then being surprised when it actually _has_ a place to live, putting sandwiches together. It’s a boring lunch, but it’s easy to carry them outside stacked on a plate.

She passes the plate to Mélie. “Hang on, I’ll go get a blanket. See if you can convince Hugo to pick a couple of toys.”

Amicia races down the hall to rummage in the bathroom closet for a checked blanket they can sit on and when she comes back she finds Mélie trying to talk Hugo out of carrying a whole armful of toys with him.

“Just pick two or three, yeah?” Mélie says. “So they don’t get lost outside.”

“But the others will be sad!”

“They can come next time.”

He frowns, but crouches to place a few on the floor again. He’s still holding his skyterror, the fireman and the dentist-Barbie. “These ones?”

“Alright. I think that’s fair, they helped the dragon so now they should eat.”

“Yes! Okay!”

They’re still enough that Hugo has to focus intently on not dropping them so Amicia holds the back door for him to waddle through, staring fiercely at his toys. She also holds it for Mélie who gives her a cheeky smile.

Hugo sits down under the tree with their hide-away in it, not waiting for them. But Amicia spreads the blanket out and he shuffles over to sit on it with them.

“Why a blankie?” he asks, folding his leg and waiting patiently for Mélie to hand him a sandwich.

“This is how you have picnics, kiddo,” Mélie tells him. “Outside, with friends and on a blankie.”

“Oh.” He holds his sandwich carefully with both hands and takes a bite. “You didn’t put the green on it.”

Mélie blinks. “The green?”

Amicia laughs and swaps her sandwich with Hugo’s. “Lettuce, he loves lettuce.”

“_Why_?” she asks, nose scrunching.

“That’s what triceratops eat,” Amicia explains.

And Mélie starts laughing. “Of course.”

Hugo plucks several blades of grass from beside the blanket and puts them between the teeth of his skyterror. “Now his teeth is better he can have lunch, too.”

“Pretty sure that one eats meat, Hugo,” Mélie mumbles around a mouthful.

He shakes his head furiously, hair flopping around his ears. “No! See? Long neck like papasaurus, so he eats the green too.”

Mélie lifts an eyebrow and Amicia translates, “Apatosaurus.”

“Right, naturally. Well, good on him. Bet he makes great kale chips.”

Hugo’s eyes are wide as he munches on his sandwich, clearly not knowing what that is. He chews through his lunch making dinosaur noises and as soon as he’s finished he leaps up and takes the skyterror zooming around the yard. When he reaches the garden under the windows he slows, twisting his wrist so he can pretend the toy is weaving through the tall flower stems and shrubs. He comes back once and declares something about the ‘super dentist’ and then Barbie is flying with the dinosaur as well.

“I don’t think Arthur and Cecile can possibly be having as much fun as Hugo is right now,” Mélie murmurs, leaning back on her hands. “Does he have friends?”

Amicia hums. “Yes. He was supposed to go spend the afternoon with one of them, actually, but his parents cancelled last minute.”

“Ah. Well, this is still nice.”

She rocks sideways to lean her shoulder against Mélie’s. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And when Mélie looks at her, that glitter is back in her eyes. Amicia believes her.

\--

Her parents don’t get back late, really, but Hugo is already asleep and they’re about to pass out on Amicia’s bed watching _Friends_ reruns when Robert pokes his head through the doorway.

“He’s alright?” her dad asks softly.

“Huh? Oh, yes. He tired himself out running around the yard, ate a few slices of pizza, bathed. He’s been asleep for a couple hours now.”

He smiles. “Thanks again, Amicia. Sorry if it ruined any plans you had, Mélie.”

Mélie’s eyes are closed, her head tipped across Amicia’s shoulder. “Hng, nope. We cool.”

Robert just laughs softly and pulls the door closed, wishing them both a good night.

And it _was_ quite a good night.

\--

Lucas sends her a flurry of text messages the next morning outlining the way his team decimated the other debaters even though Cecile had dropped out of the group and they’d had to replace her at short notice. (He’s still a little bit miffed about it but seems to have this fatalistic view of what girls find interesting and worth their time so he’s not really surprised.)

Mélie’s hair is a mess when she wakes up, grumbling about the sunlight and pulling a pillow over her face.

“Lucas won his debate,” Amicia tells her softly.

“Good for him. Now be quiet, I’m still sleeping.”

\--

A boy called Naseem joins them at their table in art that week. He’s one of only three boys in the class, and he’s the _only_ one among them who does art because he enjoys it. The other two are sporty jock boys who picked art as their elective because it’s an _easy_ class; they refer to it as Bludge Hour. Mélie detests them.

Naseem has the sort of curly hair, round face, glasses combo that Amicia has definitely heard Cecile refer to as ‘adorkable’ at least once (but not aimed _at_ Naseem). He also has the introversion and inability to make prolonged eye-contact to really round out the stereotype.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” Naseem asks them quietly, shuffling his pencil case and sketchbook across the polished table top as if he really, genuinely thinks they might yell at him.

Mélie shrugs so Amicia says, “I mean… sure? I don’t see why not.”

He smiles gratefully and perches on the stool across from them.

Amicia wouldn’t go so far as to say he becomes their _friend_, but he’s not awful. Naseem also seems to understand boundaries perfectly well; he doesn’t try and sit with them at lunch, doesn’t interact with them outside of art at all really, but he waves sometimes when he sees them in the hall. He has his own friends, other quietly nerdy boys, one of them is in Amicia’s maths class but she doesn’t know his name, just that he does his homework promptly and seems to know more about trigonometry than their teacher.

Mélie doesn’t share any other classes with him, either, and none with his other friends, so Amicia is witness to pretty much every interaction the two of them ever have. They even do some of their group work as a trio instead of a duo after he joins their table. And it’s _fine_, he’s not obtrusive but participates in conversations when there’s an opening and it’s fine.

Which is all to say they don’t make a _friend_ so much as a friendly _acquaintance_ and so Naseem joins them in art every lesson after that.

He does cross their unspoken boundary just once: on a Thursday lunch time while Amicia and Lucas are sitting in the library working on their maths assignment. He stops abruptly by their table in the way he might if he’d walked into a solid wall; he then proceeds to fiddle with the strap of his book bag until Amicia realises he’s there and focuses on him, blinking mathematical formulas from behind her retinas.

“Oh. Hey, Naseem. What’s up?”

“I missed the end of class yesterday,” he explains. “And weren’t we supposed to get the task sheets for our new assignment?”

“Oh. Yes. Did you ask the teacher?”

He shakes his head. “She’s not in her room. I asked at admin and I don’t think she’s here today.”

Amicia looks around the library quickly, and once she’s sure no one is paying her any mind, she rummages through her bag until she finds her (still unmarked) task sheet and waves for him to follow. She stops at the office printer along one wall and slides the page under the top. It’s likely _not_ against school rules to photocopy this, not _really_, but it is an official school document, and shouldn’t this probably count as forgery or something?

She worries about getting caught doing something she shouldn’t until the printer has whirred back to silence and she’s stuffed the newly copied paper into Naseem’s hands. Since no teachers have materialised to loom and glare, she assumes that means she’s gotten away with this minor infraction.

“Thanks, Amicia,” Naseem breathes, grateful. Then he scurries from the library and that’s that; the entirety of their routine breaking interaction completed.

\--

Autumn is a short season that year. One minute it’s mid-September and still sweltering enough that even with all the classroom windows open they’re tugging at neck ties and unbuttoning their collars; the next it’s October and an early November chill has rolled in from the north, bringing with it a hasty resurgence in thick coats and scarves.

This has two side effects: the lunch time bake sale that had been planned gets moved indoors and everyone complains about how cramped it gets and how hard it is to buy the muffins when people are standing in doorways and then it gets cancelled. They end up having a uniform-free day instead.

And the second is Mélie starts complaining about how unbearable the autumn carnival is going to be and will Amicia hold her to her promise from earlier in the year?

“We don’t have to go,” she says, smiling. “If it’s going to be cold we can just stay inside.”

Arthur throws one elbow around Mélie’s neck and the other around Amicia’s. “Oh, ladies, we are _going_ to the carnival. Cold weather or not. The fair was a disaster but I am not letting a little bit of early chill ruin this.” He squeezes them, twists so they can see Lucas reading at the table. “Even Lucas will come. Won’t you?”

He looks up, blinking as he returns from whichever study-realm had consumed him this time. “Hum? Oh. Yes, I’ll come to the carnival.” He blinks once, twice more. “When are we going?”

Arthur lets them go and flounces over to sit beside Lucas. “Next weekend,” he decides. “Just the four of us.”

Amicia risks a glance at Mélie but she’s got this soft quirk to her lips as she watches Arthur. It’s a mystery, what she’s thinking, but she’d hazard a guess that it’s something along the lines of relief; pleased that her brother isn’t going to abandon her in favour of someone else. Amicia nudges her in the side.

“What do you think?” she asks when Mélie meets her gaze. “Carnival?”

Mélie rolls her eyes. “If it’s cold again, you better buy me a hot chocolate.”

“You have yourself a deal.”

\--

The weather, thankfully, improves.

By the next Saturday the cold snap has abated and the weather is perfect for a day at the carnival, which is obviously what everyone else has concluded also. They do not, however, make it to the grounds early. This is mostly because Beatrice stops Amicia at the door, Mélie and Arthur waiting outside for her so they can go pick up Lucas.

She says, “Can you look after Hugo for a couple of hours before you go? I have to go to the office for a bit.”

Amicia’s shoulders slump. “Seriously? Now?”

“Yes, seriously, now.” Beatrice shuffles past her, slinging her purse higher onto her shoulder. “I’ll be back before lunch.”

Her head lolls back dramatically but she manages to stifle a groan. “Fine. _Fine_.”

Beatrice ignores her attitude, has already walked past. Mélie and Arthur both stare at her mother as she goes by, the former with a fierce glower and the latter this empty, dour look. Amicia just follows Beatrice’s progress down to where her car is parked on the curb with compressed lips and a resigned slope to every other feature.

Mélie steps up beside her. “We can wait?”

“No,” she sighs. “Go. Get Lucas and I’ll meet you guys there after lunch.”

Arthur takes a few strides closer too. “We don’t mind? And I’m sure Lucas won’t either.” He’s even got his phone out already, probably prepared to send a text.

She waves her hand, backtracks until she’s inside, intending to shut the door. “It’s fine, guys.”

“Are you sure?” Mélie’s voice has that impossibly soft quality it sometimes gets and it makes Amicia hesitate.

“Yes,” she decides after a moment. “Go.”

Arthur grabs Mélie’s elbow and pulls her back down one stair but she keeps her eyes locked on Amicia for a beat longer, two. It’s not until Amicia let’s the door swing closed that Mélie turns and leaves. She locks it and heads into the living room.

Hugo is sitting on the couch hugging his Barbie dentist (who has recently acquired a white lab coat he stole from another doll to give her and it’s oversized and made to fit a different style to the pseudo-realism of Barbies) watching some animated show. He kicks his legs, so short on the lounge that the don’t even bend, just stick out off the edge, and smiles with his entire face as she strides over and flops down into the seat beside him.

“Are your friends not staying?”

“No,” she sighs. “They’re going to get Lucas and head to the carnival.”

His eyes sparkle. “Carnival? With rides?”

Her head rolls to the side so she can smile at him a little sadly. “Not this year, Hugo.”

“Aw.” He adjusts the lab coat and kicks his legs again. “Can we watch a circle movie?”

“Dinosaurs?”

“Dinosaurs!”

She heaves herself from the couch and rifles through the dvd cases on the bookshelf before selecting an appropriately prehistoric film for him. She’s just put it in and hit play on the menu when there’s a bang on her front door. Knowing her father, he probably ordered something online and forgot to tell her to look out for collection expecting her mother to be home.

But it’s not. She opens the door and there are her friends. Even Lucas.

“What?”

Lucas gives her a wide smile. “We’re not going without you, Amicia.”

Her jaw works for a second before she returns his wide grin. “Oh. Thanks.”

Hugo _squeals_ when he sees them all. “A party!”

“Yeah!” Arthur crows, doing a little hop on his way over to Hugo’s seat. “A party! Whatcha watching, squirt?”

“Dinosaurs!”

He flops down beside her brother. “Damn, I _love_ dinosaurs.”

Hugo gasps in the sort of dramatically over-surprised way of small children. “Me _too_!” He hands Arthur his Barbie and jumps off the chair. “I’ll show you the best one.” He totters down the hall and comes back a moment later clutching a stuffed triceratops to his chest.

He clambers up onto the chair to kneel beside Arthur and holds out the dinosaur like he’s offering up the secrets of the universe.

It comes from the museum complex in the heart of Bordeaux, where they have a science and technology building, a prehistory section, a whole library, and also the planetarium. So, naturally, the dinosaur is made of sparkling fabric and looks exactly like the night sky. The stars speckled across it light up in the dark, too. It’s hands down Hugo’s favourite toy.

He even let’s Arthur pet it gently on its soft little head. “Now, _that’s_ a good little dinosaur.”

“Her name is Twinkle!” Hugo tells him happily. “Like the song.”

“You guys didn’t have to stay for me,” Amicia says to Lucas and Mélie.

“We know,” Lucas assures her. “But Arthur texted me what had happened and we wanted to keep you company.”

“Besides,” Mélie sways into her, bumping her a half step to the side, “we can go in the evening and watch the fireworks.”

\--

It cools down pretty swiftly that afternoon, so when Beatrice gets back (a little later than she said she would) they all hasten off to the carnival grounds, but not before Amicia has insisted they grab coats. Just in case. Lucas ends up wearing her school sports jacket, Arthur’s shoulders have widened so now none of them fit him except for one lightweight, knitted cardigan, and Mélie wraps herself in the baggiest, tattiest hoodie Amicia owns (the kind that’s been worn-in for several years and has reached the perfect softness to warmth ratio). It’s kind of funny to look at them standing together, actually: Arthur looking too big for his cardigan and Mélie drowning in the hoodie.

“We probably won’t need these,” Lucas is saying. “The grounds will still be quite busy for the fireworks so I daresay it’ll be warm enough.”

“Better safe than freezing,” Amicia replies to which he simply bobs his head.

“_Especially_ for when we ride the ferris wheel,” Arthur adds, arms crossed over his chest to hold the sides of the cardigan closed. “It’ll be nippy up there.”

“You say that as thought the wheel is a foregone conclusion,” Lucas mutters.

“It is. You can’t go to the carnival and _not_ ride the ferris wheel. It’s iconic.”

“It’s like going to any fair and not playing those dumb games,” Mélie chimes in. She slaps Arthur on the shoulder as they walk through the stalls and when he whirls on her she indicates a stand off to their right. “Come on, win us something.”

The game she leads them to is a hand-eye-coordination test, really. Can you knock the targets off the shelves? Some are smaller than others, higher than others, and to meet the ‘win’ requirements the player has to earn a certain number of points with only a limited amount of ammunition: little coloured balls.

Arthur hands over a pair of ticket stubs for two shots at winning and stacks it both times. He declares the first one a ‘warm-up’ after missing several throws and then decides the game is rigged. Mélie cackles at him.

“Oh, and you think you could do better?” he grouches, stuffing his hands in his pockets, ready to storm off.

“Probably not,” Mélie admits. “But there’s no need to be such a sourpuss about it.”

“I’ll give it a shot,” Amicia decides, handing over two of her own tickets. The attendant looks about as bored as it’s possible to be at a fair, she supposes. But he _does_ see this every day.

Her first game goes about as well as Arthur’s. She hits two, misses the rest, doesn’t earn enough points. Pretty standard judging by the attendant’s expression of utter disinterest.

But she hits three in a row in her second game, knocking over the targets on the top shelf for triple points (she doesn’t tell anyone that she wasn’t aiming at them to start with), misses her fourth throw (because she was aiming for the top shelf that time), hits a target on the middle shelf with her fifth, and misses the sixth. It’s a solid enough turn around that Arthur doesn’t seem capable of speaking, jaw swinging, eyes a little glazed.

“Well…” he eventually manages. “Fair play, I guess.”

The attendant hooks a thumb at the prizes she can choose from. Not that Amicia particularly wants one, so she turns to her friends. “Mélie? You said to win you something?”

She huffs a breathy laugh, lifts a hand to rub the back of her neck. “I did, huh. Sure.” And she waves a finger around before stabbing seemingly at random at a stuffed tiger. “That’ll do.”

Somehow, the attendant still manages to look bored even handing over a prize. It’s no doubt a well-honed skill.

“Thanks, princess,” Mélie mutters, following Arthur down the path. She’s holding the tiger in the crook of one elbow, clutched tightly to her side.

“Any time, Mélie. Maybe you can win me something later.”

It earns her an eye roll and a droll, “Sure.”

Lucas leads them – mostly aimless – through the crowds of people; they stop at a couple of games, most of them like the target one where challengers have to throw or drop something to win a prize. There’s a stand selling sticks skewered through a truly alarming amount of meat where they pause to buy some food, another stall not far away with drinks for sale, a vendor selling random grab bags (purchase one without knowing what’s in it, could be anything from stuffed toys to packets of chocolate to silly little joke toys). Arthur buys two and refuses to open them.

“I’m going to give one to Hugo,” he explains when Mélie asks. “He wanted to come, right? Well, he can pick one. It’s the same principle and better if I don’t know what’s in them.”

Being the _fall_ festival, held in October, no less, there are plenty of Halloween related booths, too. Some selling fun masks or fake teeth or little bags of fake bones. And once Arthur has explained his thinking, it’s like suddenly the rest of them become enchanted by the idea of bringing the carnival back to Hugo as well. Lucas buys some pointed plastic teeth and a small cardboard box with sticky eyeballs in it, Amicia backtracks to one of the food vendors and acquires a candy-coated apple in crinkly plastic wrap.

Mélie is the only one to not outright buy him something.

She waits until they leave the main area and the grounds open up into more space where some of the larger attractions stand. These include some of the physical games, a haunted house, and – classically – the ferris wheel. Mélie doesn’t hesitate, she breaks away from them and it’s not until she’s a few long strides away that the rest of them swivel to catch up.

She stops in front of a stand most notable for a gently sloping wall of inflatable mattresses and several flimsy rope ladders. Her gaze doesn’t waver from the stand, eyeing it critically before she steps over to the attendant and forks over a ticket – just _one_ ticket.

When she realises Amicia has stopped beside her she shoves the tiger into her arms with a brusque, “Hold this,” then she’s cracking her knuckles, stretching her back and squaring up against the ladder.

“You know these are typically impossible,” Lucas tells her. He points at the ends of the ladder. “With only one tether at either end and usually having at least one pivot in the supports, they’re designed to make you fall.”

She shoots him the smuggest, most obnoxious grin Amicia has ever seen. “They weren’t designed to stop _me_.” She even kicks her shoes off, which Amicia thinks is probably at least a little bit counter-productive, but Mélie curls her fingers around the edges of the rope as if she’s done it before; with the confidence of someone who knows they’re being punked and intends to out-punk the punker.

The attendant, for his part, appears just as bored as all the others that they’ve seen; which is probably fair, she supposes they get a lot of people through here regularly who fail and throw a tantrum. They’re probably desensitised.

But Mélie has this focused look in her eyes, the line of her jaw tense, and when she starts climbing it’s clear that the ladder up to Amicia’s treehouse is not the first poorly constructed ladder she’s had to deal with. She keeps her hands at just above her shoulders, slides her feet on the inside of the rope but doesn’t touch the rungs if she can help it, moves opposite limbs in tandem as she climbs. And when the pivots Lucas had mentioned swing as she reaches the middle (he grabs Amicia by the wrist, clamping down hard), but Mélie waits out the motion and keeps going. The pivots twist more the higher she goes but she does, somehow, make it to the top.

She perches on the little bar, knees hooked into the top rung of the ladder, one hand holding onto the support rope at the top, and offers them a cheeky salute.

“Suck on _that_, Arthur.”

He’s in the process of handing Lucas all his bags as she starts her descent. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “We’ll see about that.”

Mélie drops back to the ground with a satisfied smile and a little bounce; she also leans most of her weight into Amicia’s shoulder while she tugs her shoes back on without sitting. “Alright, yeah, talk it up,” she says to Arthur who is in the process of handing – very pointedly – only one ticket over to the attendant. “Your balance is for shit.”

Arthur pulls a face, lips drawn out to the side, nose scrunched, one eyebrow arched; he scoffs. “Yeah? We’ll see about it,” he repeats. “We’ll see about it.”

He does alright. Mélie tips one elbow onto Amicia’s shoulder as he starts and the higher he gets – following the same basic pattern she had; holding the ropes, moving opposite limbs, waiting out motions – the more of her weight she leans into her. By the time he’s struggling to hang on while the pivot spins him she’s practically supporting none of her own weight.

And so when he falls, Amicia realises why: she was trying not to laugh.

Mélie bursts out into the sort of nasty cackles that can only come from watching a sibling fail. She has to grab Amicia by the elbow to stop from sitting down she’s laughing so hard.

Arthur glares at her. “How did you know?” he asks, storming over and dusting off the seat of his pants. “How did you _know_?”

It takes her a moment to collect herself and even when she straightens she only manages to speak through a wheeze, “I loosened the pivot at the top.”

He grabs for her collar, but she’s faster, Mélie scoots around behind, hands landing on Amicia’s hips to tug her between herself and Arthur every time he tries to sidestep her. The problem is, for a few seconds, Amicia lets this happen entirely because she’s suddenly very, _electrically_ aware of Mélie’s hands on her hips, the space between them. (The longer she’s been Mélie’s friend, the more comfortable with tactile interactions she’s become, but this… this feels different. In just… some way she can’t define.) Regardless, it takes her brain a moment to kick back into gear and jerk her to the present moment where she’s acting as a living, breathing buffer keeping Arthur from beating up his sister.

She steps away from Mélie (and she’s the same level of painfully aware when her hands slide from her hips) and lifts an arm to keep Arthur away. “Relax, Arthur,” she says. “I’m sure we can find something for you to beat Mélie at.” She nods her head at the attendant. “And I don’t think we should make a scene. They might kick us out.”

He deflates, shoulders dropping as he exhales; but they square up again not a moment later and he lifts a finger to wave at Mélie. “This isn’t over.”

She sticks her tongue out.

“Hey, kid.” The attendant is leaning a little further over the booth, waving one arm vaguely in their direction. “You gonna claim your prize or what?”

Mélie half-skips over to him and muses at the stuff displayed along the back wall. It’s mostly toys but after a moment she points at one that must be hidden behind the man because Amicia can’t make it out, and when she takes it from him and saunters back over, it’s to show them all a funny little love-child toy of a triceratops and a monster truck. It’s taped into a cardboard box, but there’s a pop-up bit on one said that says ‘press here’ and when Lucas leans in to do so, the toy makes a love-child noise between some ear-splitting shriek and a very throaty muscle car engine.

“It’s horrible,” Lucas decides.

“I hope Hugo loves it,” Mélie says, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’m sure he will.”

This time, it’s Arthur who backs up, waving for them to follow before he leads the way. It shouldn’t surprise Amicia, probably, that he leads them directly to the haunted funhouse. Or… whatever those are called. The entrance is a big vampire mouth and inside the walls and ceilings are hung heavily with fake cobwebs and some sticky stuff that’s probably adjacent to silly string.

There are other people at this one, so they have to wait to get into the house proper, but that’s fine, Amicia isn’t particularly excited for it. And neither is Lucas but to his credit, he doesn’t say anything. He does say, “I swear to god, Arthur, if you split from the group just to give us a scare, I _will_ punch you,” however.

Arthur’s answering grin is _not_ encouraging.

He doesn’t have to jump out and terrify any of them, though, there are plenty of employees in the house who probably get paid as much in job satisfaction as they do in actual currency for leaping out of hidden nooks (or in one, memorable, instance: drop from the ceiling). It’s heavy on the fog machine, the sound effects are equal parts unsettling and grating, and the faint echoes of screams from the group ahead of them is _just_ enough to make Amicia’s skin crawl.

And when one of the glowing, decorative skeletons painted on the wall suddenly _isn’t_ on the wall anymore, is detaching itself slowly, with rough, unpractised movements, reaching for them, she grabs violently for Mélie’s hand and holds it tight, tugging her along the hall away from the skeleton. She can hear Arthur laughing behind her, but she knows he’s following with Lucas when the _tap tap_ of their shoes picks up on the concrete floor.

Not that the room she shoves into – still dragging Mélie behind – is much better. Suddenly she’s confronted by millions of reflections, all wide-eyed and heavy breathing, holding hands with a softly smiling Mélie. Amicia lets go when Mélie bumps their shoulders together.

“Better? You don’t normally have a problem with jump scares.”

“I’m not usually that disoriented,” she says softly, turning as Arthur and Lucas join them. “Alright?”

“The skeleton man laughed at you, Amicia,” Lucas informs you.

She sighs. “I guess that _is_ his job.”

This room is better, but not much less disorienting, having so many reflections, and so much _floor space_, projected back at them makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s trapped behind glass. Lucas bumps into _several_ mirrors and when Arthur hollers something and they look around, that’s about when they realise they’ve gotten separated. Amicia takes one of Lucas’ hands in hers and scoops Mélie’s up again.

“I’m not getting lost in here,” she decides. “Arthur?”

They play the world’s most awkward game of Marco-Polo until they literally walk into him. He takes Mélie’s other hand and leads the way out, back into the comparatively fresh air of the carnival grounds.

“I think I need to sit down now,” Lucas exhales. “That was unusually stressful.”

Amicia squeezes his hand. “How about we go get some fairy floss and they can ride the ferris wheel?”

He gives her a grateful look, squeezes back. “That sounds nice.”

They buy four sticks anyway, Mélie and Arthur take theirs up with them and she sits with Lucas on a bench not far away and watches the lights spin around. Arthur waves at them from the top and Lucas lifts his hand in response.

“This has been fun,” he admits. “I didn’t think it would be. Especially not the funhouse.”

She bumps into his shoulder. “I’m glad you had fun. I worried you wouldn’t.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know… I think it’s… it’s nice that we can all hang out sometimes.” She hears a tone hidden in his words, something along the lines of how it’s great Mélie and Arthur are still their friends, they haven’t _lost_ them.

It’s a feeling she can wholeheartedly understand.

“Maybe next time we can do something indoors,” she suggests, and he huffs a laugh.

“That might be nice.”

Mélie walks backwards when they get off the wheel, probably having a conversation with Arthur. And when they reach the bench, Amicia is struck by a sinking feeling low in her gut that says, not only was she _right_, but that the conversation they had was _not_ something entirely good.

“There’s one turn of the wheel left before the fireworks,” Mélie says. “And the queue is _really_ small.” She holds a hand out. “C’mon. Let’s all go. Just one.”

Arthur extends one of his hands to Lucas as well, but it’s not until he’s exchanged a look with Amicia that either of them accepts the invitation.

They get adjacent cars, Arthur and Lucas in the front one with Mélie and Amicia behind them. The wheel rotates slowly, creaking the whole time, and pauses constantly as each car hits the top so the occupants (even if there aren’t any) have a good chance to take in the view.

When Arthur and Lucas get to the top, several fireworks go off in the paddock behind the grounds. A loud whipcrack and a juddering shockwave of smaller, sharper popping sounds. It’s such a shock that Mélie jumps just a little, her hands going white-knuckled on the railing.

At first, Amicia doesn’t know why, then she remembers how hard Mélie avoids talking about her dad, how sometimes she wears long sleeves in warm weather, how the school bell startles her unless she’s got a good, clear view of the clock; then it makes some sense. She reaches out, rubs her thumb across the back of Mélie’s hand, gets a curious look, but she relaxes enough that Amicia can take the hand, thread their fingers together, hold it – solid and warm – in her lap. She holds Mélie’s eyes, trying with every fibre in her, to convey this _sense_ that she’s alright, safe, that Amicia is _there_ for her.

If the softening in Mélie’s eyes is anything to go by, the gentle slumping of her shoulders, the way she removes her other hand from the bar, she’s at least partly successful. Amicia squeezes her hand for good measure.

Their car hits the top and swings to a stop. No more fireworks go off for a long beat and then a volley lights up the sky in a messy, glittery collage of pinks and golds and white. Mélie clutches her hand harder with the first few loud bangs, but once they start to rotate back down the other side, she relaxes. And by the time their feet are back on solid ground, Mélie seems to be holding onto her hand more out of habit than a need to reassure herself.

Still, she doesn’t let Amicia lead them back to Arthur and Lucas immediately. Instead she tugs Amicia closer for a tiny second, long enough to whisper a hoarse, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

\--

Hugo, of course, loves that they’ve brought the carnival home to him. He makes delighted squealing sounds over the triceratops-mobile from Mélie, squishes his hands around the crinkly wrapping paper on the apple, barrels headfirst into Arthur’s middle when he tells Hugo to pick a bag. By the widening of his eyes and the awkward arms-out posture he takes up, Arthur is surprised to suddenly have a clingy four year old wrapped around his middle.

When he relaxes there’s a softness in his expression, and he returns Hugo’s hug in the same clumsy manner that Mélie used to use when Amicia hugged her.

He lets Hugo keep both bags.

\--

Naseem slides onto the stool across the table from Amicia and places his supplies across the desk in the precise way he has – much neater than either her or Mélie. She suspects it has something to do with getting himself in the mindset for art if the way he always squares his shoulders and takes several deep breaths are any indication. Why he might have to psych himself up for _art_ of all subjects has eluded her for months, but here they are.

He says not a word to her until the teacher takes the roll and when Mélie’s name is called, Amicia says, “Absent.”

Then he blurts: “Mélie isn’t here today?”

She lifts a brow at him, smiles in this quirky way that she _knows_ she’s picked up from the twins. “No. Said she’s not feeling well.”

“Oh.”

It’s only because she’s watching him closely that she sees the way his shoulders tip down, the way he sucks in a final deep breath and exhales in a measured fashion, the way his face tinges pink and he jerks his eyes to the floor.

But just because she’s looking at him doesn’t mean she can make sense of it. “You alright?” she asks him.

Naseem doesn’t meet her eyes again. Just mumbles, “Yeah,” and gets on with his work.

They spend the rest of the lesson in complete silence.

\--

She flops into business at the end of the day feeling potentially more drained than is called for by a regular school day. And the look she gets from Lucien doesn’t help in the slightest. He also doesn’t _stop_ looking at her even though she makes no attempt to greet him or make eye contact or anything.

“You feeling okay?” he asks, softly.

“Oh, yes,” she exhales. “I suppose. Just been a long day, you know?”

He huffs a sort of half-laugh. “Yeah. I get it.” There’s a long moment of silence before he speaks again, voice low so the teacher doesn’t hear him. “It’s Louis’ birthday this weekend. Do you wanna come?”

“Shouldn’t Louis be the one asking that?”

“You wouldn’t be going for Louis,” he says slowly.

“If it’s his birthday, who else would I go for?”

He offers her his wide toothpaste-smile. “Because it was nerve-wracking to ask a pretty girl to go somewhere with me and you’re impressed by my courage?”

Amicia’s head whips up at that, suddenly understanding what he means. Lucien’s smile flickers around the edges, turns it into something a little more honest, less fluorescent. She isn’t sure it’s the reason her heart thuds heavily against her ribs, beating a warning staccato that she can’t make heads or tails of when her brain has inconveniently gone blank.

She feels her mouth move but isn’t even sure what she’s said until Lucien’s eyes light up a little, smiling solidifying back into that store-room glare. Then the words drift back to her like she somehow ended up at the end of a long tunnel and there was a delay in the words arriving.

“Um. Sure.”

That’s what said. It’s _very_ convincing, rings a hollow echo in her ears, but it’s still an affirmation and Lucien either doesn’t hear the hesitation, the uncertainty, or chooses to ignore it.

“Great.” His smile ticks wider, enough that she has to look away before it blinds her. “I’ll pick you up at six. What’s your address?”

Again, the words filter from her mouth – moving in automatic slow-motion – to her brain on a delay. Suddenly she feels very viscerally as if she’s watching this moment from outside her body.

Is this how all girls react when a cute boy asks them on a date? Even a tame date such as this?

She has no idea. Maybe. It’s probably because his smile is still causing her brain to malfunction and what other reason would her brain have to malfunction except that she’s potentially thrilled by this to the point of numbness?

That makes complete sense.

(Amicia isn’t really _sure_ she convinces herself of that. But she does a passable approximation.)

\--

(It’s _not_ hard to convince anyone else that she’s excited to have been asked out by Lucien Mercier. Cecile, in particular, regards him as ‘the hottest boy in their year’. Lucas gets this warm smile like he’s happy for her, but wary, still expecting her to drift from their oddball medley of friends to settle with Lucien’s more up-market brand of associates. Arthur rolls his eyes but claps her on the shoulder like he might if he thinks she’s done something particularly impressive – and perhaps he does, he shares Cecile’s appraisal of Lucien. He will also be there, at Cecile’s request, of course.

Mélie’s eyes narrow – but she immediately sneezes after so perhaps that particular gesture has nothing to do with Lucien. She smiles, says things like ‘damn, nice’ and ‘have fun’ and ‘text me what those losers get up to at birthday parties’. But there’s a restraint in her eyes, something that douses the usual cheeky flare, the glitter, the sunlight she hides behind her teeth. Maybe it’s not okay. Maybe.

She’s still convincing herself that this is what a first date feels like. It’s hard to worry about Mélie when she’s so worried about herself.

Being a teenager is _hard_.)

\--

Amicia tells her parents that Lucien’s older brother is picking her up to go to a birthday party that Cecile invited her to mostly because she doesn’t want the trauma of living through some kind of ‘first date’ speech. It also means that they won’t ask questions because Cecile is going to be there and it’s just like five whole kids so it’s harmless.

(She is aware that it’s very probably she _will_ have to live through a ‘first date’ – or _god forbid_, a ‘first boyfriend’ – speech at some point. But if she can delay it for as long as possible, well, that’s just ideal.)

Lucien’s brother doesn’t introduce himself and that’s just fine, too. They drive to Louis’ house in silence, except for the part where Amicia says, “I gave my dad Louis’ address. He’ll pick me up later.”

“Are you sure?” Lucien asks, blinking big and genuinely surprised.

“Yes. Dad has to go to work early and he doesn’t want me home late in case the door wakes him.”

“Okay, then.”

Then it’s back to silence.

Louis lives in a neighbourhood not too far from Amicia, his house is giant, though, at least twice as big as hers. Perhaps even three times. Lucien’s brother drops them off in the driveway, shoots them an apathetic little salute and pulls out without another word.

“So.” Lucien swings his arms at his sides. There’s something about his body language, the way his eyes flick to her, from her face and down, the way his fingers clench and unclench repeatedly. Eventually he lifts his shoulders and stuffs his hands into his jean’s pockets. “Welcome to Louis’ house, I guess. It’s… yeah.”

“Am I going to get lost?” she asks with a half-curve smile.

He laughs, properly this time. “No. Just stick to the lower level and you’ll be fine.”

“Right.”

It’s Cecile who opens the door when Lucien knocks. “Hey! You made it!” She waves them in and clicks the door closed behind. “Louis’ parents got him a table tennis set. He watched the regional competition on the telly and now he’s obsessed,” she explains to Amicia (Lucien would obviously have this context). “So we’re playing each other.”

This sounds fine to Amicia, really, she was expecting something… well she didn’t particularly have many preconceived notions of how these people would do a birthday, but this feels somehow tamer than all the anxieties she’d had.

But then they step out onto the back patio where a pair of wrought iron braziers are fending off the growing chill that comes with this late autumn season and there’s a table with a plastic patterned cloth bearing an assortment of drinks. And Amicia can tell from the way Louis is holding his clear cup – stacked two deep and crinkling in his grip – that whatever the mixture is in the various bottles, at least one of them contains alcohol.

So… that’s more along the lines of what she’d anticipated.

Arthur is playing Ana on the table, a bright orange ball pinging between them. She thinks it’s probably an unfair match. Sure, she and Arthur had never _quite_ mastered playing tennis, but they practised enough with each other that it might give them an edge. And if the way Arthur slams the ball down the line counts as a clue, she’s dead on the money.

“Yes!” He does a little fist pump with the hand holding the bat, and that’s when he spots Amicia. “That’s me, winner of another round. Amicia!” He beckons at her with the bat. “Finally, a worthy opponent.”

“Oh!” Cecile squeals. “I forgot you two played tennis together.”

“_Played_, is a strong word, Cici,” Amicia says.

“Whatever.” Ana slaps the bat into her hands. “Teach him a lesson for me.”

“Are the rules the same?”

Arthur’s shoulders wobble. “The ins-and-outs are the same, the scoring is a bit more straightforward. First to twenty-one with a lead of two.”

She makes a few practise swipes with her bat. “Easy enough. Game on, Dubois.”

He fair cackles before he lays a truly nasty curved serve at her. Her reach is just _barely_ enough to catch it. And it ticks the side of the table before bouncing away at a ridiculous angle and bopping Louis in the temple.

Ana and Cecile _scream_. “Yeah!”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow, all pointed smirk and haughty shoulder lines. “Oh, you’re going _down_, de Rune.”

He suits his words. They volley back and forth for _ages_, the score remains tight until the sun has pretty much set behind them and Lucien has to help Louis set up the outdoor lights. They go point for point almost for half an hour, forty-five minutes, even. Amicia lands one, then Arthur, then she gets a good wide shot, then she misses a back hand. But he switches the lead eventually, pulls ahead, gets two points in a row, drawing even and then pulling out in front. Cecile has perched on the drinks table and looks ready to fall off she’s leaned so far forward.

Amicia gets a point, deuce.

Arthur pulls ahead, advantage to him.

She serves a spin ball to his off-hand, anticipates his return shot, sends it back, does _not_ predict him to volley it back to her with a back-hand. It flies past her left elbow before she’s even registered the _crack_ of it hitting the table right under her bat.

It pings off into the yard behind her.

“Game, set, _match_,” he crows, tossing the bat on the table with a wide grin. Then he rolls his eyes, slouching forward, takes the hem of his shirt in one hand and lifts it to wipe his sopping brow. “Damn, Amicia. Good game.”

Louis says, “That’s the longest anyone has held him out all afternoon. Forty-three to forty-one? Insanity.”

When Amicia looks over, Cecile is staring at Arthur, blush scribbled over her cheeks and Ana is staring vaguely over her shoulder at the ball. She slides from the table and hurries off to collect it.

“That’s double what you had to get to, you know,” Lucien chimes in, sidling up to her side, one arm going around her waist. He’s warm – too warm – hand a little too insistent but she doesn’t pull away. “There was no need to impress _that_ hard.”

“Go hard, or go home, Luce.” Arthur slugs Lucien in the shoulder on his way past to the drinks table. “Now. About dinner?”

“Pizza arrived while you were playing,” Ana says, popping back in. “We waited.”

“Are you going to play more later?” Amicia asks. “Because I’m _tired_.”

“Nah!” Louis wobbles upright and waddles into the house. “Ana wants to play some dumb party games or something. Seven minutes in heaven or whatever, right?”

“Well, we’re three couples,” Ana says with a wink at Amicia. It lifts the hairs on the back of her neck for reasons she can’t identify and chooses not to explore. “Might as well.”

“You don’t pick who you spend the seven minutes with, Ana.” Arthur leans right up into her face. “You might have to kiss _me_.”

And her face goes the same shade of red as Cecile’s had.

“Or,” says Lucien, guiding Amicia through the door with his arm still around her waist, “We could not do that, and instead play one of Louis’ many, _many_ silly card games.”

Louis perks up at the suggestion, turns, walks backwards down the short hall to the kitchen where a stack of pizzas is wafting delicious smells to Amicia’s empty and complaining stomach. “_Oh_,” he sing-songs, bumping into the kitchen island. “Yes. Let’s play Balderdash.”

“You’ve had three cups, already. You sure you can use big enough words for Balderdash?” Ana asks wryly, prodding his shoulder.

“Psh.” He draws the sound out long and hissing. “You’re just afraid to play me, the _champion_.”

Lucien finally relinquishes his hold on Amicia, more interested in food. Someone (probably Louis) has also brought inside the jugs of potentially-alcoholic drink and he pours himself a half-cup of that too. The island has four stools around it and he perches on one, Louis beside him.

Arthur slides up onto the counter top – closer to the pizza – and Amicia decides the safest place is beside him, rather than the risky move Ana makes by tiptoeing high enough to sit on Louis’ knee. His face is flushed and his eyes glassy in a way that tells her one or both of them is in real danger of tumbling off the stool to the floor.

“I’m not a fan of word games,” Arthur informs them around a mouthful. She wonders if these people know about his academic struggles. “How’s this one work?”

“Everyone is given a word,” Cecile explains, “and a piece of paper. You have to write a definition you think matches that word and then we guess which one is right. There’s a whole thing where you can score it but we never bother with that, it’s more fun to be ridiculous.”

“And see if you can figure out who wrote which definition,” Ana adds.

Arthur’s eyes light up in the same warm, glittery way Mélie’s do when she’s plotting mischief. “Oh… I can get behind that.”

He and Lucien shift the pizza boxes to the floor and after Ana has been unceremoniously pushed from his knee, Louis goes upstairs to find the box of cards. They sprawl out on the kitchen floor, blocking at least two doorways or thoroughfares should someone want to pass by, but Louis’ parents aren’t home and his sister is off doing something at college so that shouldn’t be a problem. Amicia fetches herself a glass of tap water and Lucien _finally_ thinks to ask if she wants a drink; but she doesn’t, not of that.

When Louis collapses inelegantly back to the floor and starts to shuffle the deck, he spills most of them into one of the pizza boxes so Ana relieves him of that duty and has him pass out sticky notes instead.

Once they all have those, she pulls a card free with a flourish and declares, “Jaleo,” and provides them with the spelling just in case.

By some miracle, they manage to remain quiet long enough to write down answers and pass them to her and then she’s reading out their responses. All of which sound utterly ridiculous to Amicia. It goes like this:

  * A type of parrot from Sweden
  * The sticky lining of seeds in stone fruit
  * A Spanish dance
  * Squishy artificially flavoured food served in hospitals
  * The barbs on the end of jellyfish tentacles, and
  * A brush used in digging up bones

“Alright then,” Ana squares the edges of the notes together and holds them in her hands as if she’s in possession of the world’s most precious treasure. “Which one is correct?”

“Arthur wrote the one about jelly,” Amicia decides, instantly. “It’s not right.”

He squawks at her, claps a hand to his chest, but the brilliant smile that lights up his face proves her right. “How’d you know that?”

“I’ve known you years, Arthur,” she says, flatly. “Pretty sure I understand your sense of humour by now.”

“Oof. Well, you’re right, so thanks.”

“I think it’s the seed lining one,” Cecile muses. “It seems just stupid enough to be right.”

“Nah,” Louis drawls. “Nah, no way. It’s the tentacles.”

“You wrote the tentacles, Louis,” Lucien laughs. “I think it’s the seed one, too.”

Arthur shrugs, says, “Sure, seeds, why not,” and they all look at Amicia.

“What? Oh I have to guess. I don’t know, maybe the bone brush?”

Ana waves one of the sticky notes in her hand, fanning her face with it. “Who wrote the seed lining?”

“If you don’t recognise the hand writing, that makes it Amicia,” Cecile points out. “Nice, so it’s not the answer.”

Louis tips sideways dangerously, resting his chin on Ana’s shoulder. “Tell us the answer.”

“It was the Spanish dance.”

And that’s how the game goes. One of them picks a stupid word and the rest of them write stupid answers. Most of the time, Arthur is easy to eliminate because he picks something that will sort-of rhyme or anything silly.

But he does accidentally get _one_ answer correct.

“Hang on,” Lucien mutters, frowning at the notes in his hand. “I have two of the same answer.”

“No way!” Louis gasps dramatically.

“Well, I guess we know which one the real answer is,” Ana sighs. “Might as well skip this round.”

“What is it?” Amicia asks him.

“Uh… well the answer is the rule of a religious order, but someone wrote ‘when the church rules’ which is the same thing, right?”

“Right.”

Arthur bursts out into hideous cackles. “No. _Really_? That’s my answer.”

They all whine at him and Louis scoops up a handful of chocolate bits and throws them at him.

It’s… surprisingly fun. And it stays that way right up until Ana decides Louis needs to sleep off his drink and Cecile enlists Arthur’s help in pulling the mattresses down the stairs so they can all sleep on the floor in the living room. Then, Amicia checks her phone, notes the time and the ‘omw’ text from her father and when she looks up it’s just her and Lucien.

Her breath stills in her chest when he smiles at her, a wall of white teeth in his brown face.

“Did you have fun?” he asks, scooting across the hardwood floor until their hips bump together.

Her mouth opens but words fail her for a long moment. When she manages an, “I… yes,” it comes out breathy, hoarse, _nervous_.

Lucien bobs his head. “Good, I’m glad.” He lifts a hand, scratches along his jaw where he needs to shave again and his smile drops in wattage to something a little more sincere. Her heart stutters and her head does that thing where it ejects her from the situation and suddenly she’s watching from a great distance with little chance to impact the course of events. “Is there, um… any chance you’d want to go on another date with me? Maybe for New Years’ or after the break?”

Amicia’s heart hammers away, she has no idea whether she really wants to or not, has little chance of conveying her hesitation; her rambling thoughts barreling along the tracks, skipping through stations ‘I’m not sure’ and ‘don’t really think I know you well enough to be certain of anything’ and ‘I had a nice time, maybe we could just hang out and see how it goes’ to careen to a screeching halt at the end of the line. Wherein her mouth – having read the signage on the platform – blurts, “Sure, that might be nice.”

And see, now she’s done that thing again where she _agrees_ and he’s _heard_ that, but has none of the underlying anxious context.

“Great,” he says around his five-thousand watt smile. “We can catch up over the break, too. Do you have any plans?”

She shrugs. “Christmas with my family. And… well I don’t know what the twins are planning, but I’m sure we’ll do something for their birthday, too.” It’s almost worth wondering if she should extend an invitation to him. But it’s not her birthday and she can already see Mélie’s dramatic eye roll at the mere suggestion.

Lucien has his mouth open to say more but there’s a honk from outside and another text message blinks on her screen.

Dad: _present!_

“I have to go,” she tells him.

He scrambles to his feet to offer her a hand up and she forgets to think before she accepts it. Amicia pulls her hand free, but she’s so focused on that – on leaving, on breathing fresh air outside – that she misses when he leans in and presses his lips to her cheek. It scratches; a day’s worth of stubble on his still mostly-razor-free face rubbing sandpaper past her mouth. His lips are warm, dry, chapped, firm; she can’t process that combination at the moment, too busy struggling for oxygen, trying to rein in her heart as it gallops along the racecourse of her intestines.

It lasts too long. She twitches back, steps out of his space, takes another two steps away for good measure. And when she smiles she worries he’ll see through it and find the uncertainty eating her from the inside out.

Arthur comes stomping back down the stairs, a mattress over his shoulder. Whatever he sees then, it’s not the whole of it.

“You going, Amicia?”

“Yes. That was my dad.”

He drops the mattress on the floor, cards and sticky notes and lolly wrappers puffing away in a wave. Arthur bops her on the shoulder. “I’ll see you on Monday then, yeah?”

She bops him back. Arthur is easier, less stress, less tearing at her diaphragm. “Duh.”

He laughs, slings an arm around her shoulder. There’s nothing heavy about him, nothing _too hot_, too overbearing, too fraught with decisions. He’s just _Arthur_, in a way that Lucien is no longer _just_ anything. Amicia relaxes under his touch, all the same, and he walks her to the door.

Ana and Cecile are coming back down the stairs behind him when she pulls it in. They wave, she waves. Lucien smiles. Hers feels fake.

The door closes behind her and she leans back against it, inhaling one, two, three great big gulps of air. Her hand shakes a little on the door handle when she makes it down the drive to her father’s car; she hides the wobble in her knee by sitting as quickly as possible.

“Did you have a good evening?” he asks.

“It was… fine.”

He nods but she doesn’t know what he hears in her tone. Her voice sounds tinny to her ears. She scrubs at her cheek where she can still feel the sandpaper of Lucien’s chin.

It’s not the whole truth, but she doesn’t think it’s a complete lie, either.

\--

“How come we never do anything for Lucas’ birthday?” Arthur sits heavily down beside him, the seat quivers with the action. “When is it, anyway?”

“July eighteenth,” he says. “And we always do something for my birthday. Last year we went to the museum.”

“I thought we only went to the museum because it was air conditioned and the temperature hit forty,” Mélie mumbles, waving her plastic fork.

Lucas frowns but seems to conclude that her words are at least eighty percent joke. “Mélie, you bought me a collection of marbles that look like planets.”

A slow smile spreads across her face. “Oh yeah. I did, too.”

“You never _told_ us that was your birthday.” Arthur leans heavily on the table, leaning as far as he can into Lucas without rupturing his personal space bubble.

“Yeah, he did. You just forgot.”

“What are we doing for your birthday,” Amicia interrupts before Arthur can do more than open his dumb mouth.

“I want to go and see that movie coming out,” Arthur declares, removing himself from Lucas’ space. He lifts a hand and gestures like he’s pointing grandly at some neon sign on a Times Square billboard. “_Major Catastrophe_. It’s gonna be a _blast_.”

“Dinner and a show, then?” Lucas asks him.

“If you’re buying, then sure. We can have dinner.” He winks at Lucas and gets a delightful red stain in response.

“Mélie?” Amicia presses.

She sits up a little on the bench, shoulders squaring. “You remember last time how we made a cake and it turned out like shit?”

“Yes?”

“I wanna make a proper cake, this time. Like, a successful cake.”

She won’t meet Amicia’s eyes, and that’s what tells her there’s something more behind this particular request. Still, she says, “Alright. Do you have a recipe?”

“I’ll find one.” And then she slumps back over the table, chewing on the end of her fork.

“Dinner,” Arthur says, lifting one finger, “a show,” he raises a second, “_and cake_?” a third finger. “Man, best birthday ever, right here.”

Amicia smiles at him, rolls her eyes, but her promise from the previous year to outdo herself reminds her that this probably _will_ be their best birthday ever.

She joins Mélie in slouching at the table.

\--

Amicia doesn’t end up meeting with Lucien over the Christmas break, which is fine with her. She spends entirely too much time wondering over her feelings on the whole ‘dating him’ thing. Should she be so uncertain about it? Shouldn’t she know what she wants? He’s very nice, and perfectly good looking, and does well in all his classes, has a good family and friends who are (mostly) reputable.

Isn’t that what she should want?

Maybe it is.

\--

She’s pretty much got herself convinced of it, in fact, when Lucien asks her in the New Year if she’d like to do something in February.

“There’s this really fun sushi shop,” he tells her, walking at her side down the hall to lunch after business. “I thought I could make a booking and we could go see why Cecile raves about it.”

He smiles hopefully and Amicia – brain functioning just fine today – says, “Yes. Let’s do that.” It settles something in her stomach and when he smiles his wide white smile at her this time, she barely notices the fluorescence, and her return one is almost genuine.

Maybe it _is_.

\--

Their art class has an excursion right at the start of the year. They’re handed permission slips and told to have them signed by this date so they can go to the art gallery and see this fantastic impressionism exhibit because that’s what they’ll be working on for the last half of the year.

Mélie is thrilled. “We get a whole day off classes to wander around a building and look at artwork? Hell _yes_.”

“We have to take notes,” Naseem reminds her.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

They line up at the school gates for a uniform check, a stern reminder to be on their best behaviour, they’re representing the whole school, _don’t forget_. Mélie stands in the middle, slouching into the wire fence, head tipped back, eyes closed, hands in the pockets of her school sweater; a picture of lackadaisical. Something about the shape she cuts against the wire keeps drawing Amicia’s eyes back to her, too, Mélie’s easy attitude more interesting than the sharp attendance of the rest of their dozen or so classmates, loitering closer to the bus waiting for their teacher to usher them inside.

It’s not raining, but the sky carries a decidedly ominous grey, clouds hanging heavy, deluge pending.

“The teacher is late,” Naseem says, checking his wristwatch for the sixth time in as many minutes. “We’ll miss the opening.”

Mélie grunts. “It’s a gallery, Naseem,” she drawls. “The paintings aren’t going anywhere.”

His face flushes when she says his name and he goes back to staring at the time.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you a watched pot never boils?” Amicia asks just for something to do, a conversation starter.

“They did, but it’s untrue,” he grumbles. Conversation over. Before it even began.

Finally, their teacher power walks up the pavement from the admin building; coat half on, half whisking around behind her in a bilious capelet. A clipboard spills from the edge of her handbag and she hastily grabs for it so it doesn’t clatter to her feet while also trying to climb the three steps up into the bus to converse with their driver. It’s lucky she doesn’t fall ass-first to the sidewalk.

After a moment she reappears, clipboard properly in hand now and shoos them onto the bus, taking their attendance as she does so. Amicia elbows Mélie in the ribs to get her moving.

“Bus buddy?” Amicia asks her sweetly.

Mélie grouches, hums, makes a show of rubbing at her side, brows pulled down into a moderately accusing pout. “_Fine_. You know the bus is probably big enough for all fifteen of us to get our own double seat, right?”

“Sure, but then who’s shoulder would you sleep on?”

She gets a blink, a pause, a thoughtful expression as Mélie’s eyes peer through their current dimension into a future where she doesn’t have someone to fall asleep on. “You make a good case. I’ll allow it.”

Since Mélie intends to sleep through the thirty-minute trip to the gallery, she graciously allows Amicia the window seat. Naseem sits across the aisle from them, but – as Mélie predicted – there are enough seats for everyone else to get one to themselves. Not that they all _do_, but it’s the obvious choice for most of them. Not like they can take up two seats on the bus to and from school, so why not enjoy it while they can?

The gallery itself is pretty boring. They’re not allowed to take photos, but their teacher hands them all a booklet with grainy black-and-white copies of each painting relevant to their assessment.

“Make sure you take notes,” the teacher says – repeats shrilly at least four times before they even get inside. “Comment on the texture, there’s things you’ll get from being here in person that you just can’t find online.”

Mélie mutters, “Bullshit,” but they still meander through the halls jotting down the occasional note. Things on composition and brush strokes and stuff pulled wholesale from the artists’ notes pinned on the white walls beside each canvas.

Despite the tedium, the sameness, the pervasive _silence_ that fills every single one of the multitude of identical white rooms, it’s nice to have no classes. Nice to spend time with Mélie and be graced with her snarky comments regarding each artist.

“You think I can get away with writing that the only _impression_ I’m getting of Edouard Manet is that he was a bit of a slut,” Mélie says, staring up at a painting of one of Manet’s mistresses. Her voice is pitched low, but still calculated enough that it carries to the nearest snobby woman in a frilly dress and perfectly coifed hair.

She sniffs and stalks away. Mélie grins, doesn’t look at the woman, just grins, knowing exactly what she’d done.

“_Mélie_,” Amicia hisses. “You can’t say stuff like that here. People can _hear_ you.”

“That’s kinda the point, princess.”

She smiles, not really bothered to push the reprimand.

After lunch, their teacher lets them loose. Which is to say there are a whole lot of other exhibits in the art gallery on the different floors (impressionism being just one) and they are encouraged to look around. Respectfully.

It’s pleasant; there are some fun statues, a weird installation involving a heap of silvery balls suspended in water, and a heap of hanging sculptures made of junk but when viewed from a certain angle they look like something else. (One is bits and pieces of old machinery and when lined up it makes a motorcycle. Naseem enjoys that one; he explains that each of the metal items is an actual part of a motorcycle and they’re from all different periods of time and brands or whatever.)

Then they’re being herded out into the parking lot and lined up for a headcount. The teacher goes over them twice before she’s satisfied that all are present and accounted for.

Due to the length of the bus, the narrow nature of the streets, and the complete disregard for town planning that went into the construction of the art gallery and its attending car park, there’s no place for the bus to turn around. So it pulls in on the other side of the street pointing back the way they came, and they all have to cross the road to get to it. There are also no traffic lights. It’s a real hazard. Clearly no one at any point thought to themselves ‘hey, kids will come here on school trips, we should put a zebra crossing in or _something_’.

Idiots.

So they all form twos-for-safety under the teacher’s watchful gaze, Mélie ends up paired with Naseem and Amicia with another girl called Lorelai (she thinks). The teacher instructs them to go one pair at a time, checking for cars, not stopping in the middle of the street, all that stuff.

There’s a nice big gap between cars for a stretch and three pairs head off; the two in front of Mélie and Naseem, then them, and Amicia and Lorelai after. Not too close together, but not too far apart either, just in case a car comes barrelling down the road and can’t stop, or some such.

Regardless, this is how she ends up walking into Mélie who has stopped in the middle of the road.

When Amicia steps around her, the expression on Mélie’s face is wan, drawn, paler than normal, eyes wide, lips parted. It’s horror, plain and simple. Amicia looks about her but can’t see anything that would have prompted this reaction.

Then there’s a whole heap of stuff:

A car horn.

Someone yelling.

Naseem, she thinks.

Mélie still hasn’t moved.

She grabs her hand and tugs.

There’s a moment of resistance and then Mélie’s legs seem to find some automatic reaction and she follows woodenly behind Amicia.

A car thunders through the place they were just standing, driver still blasting the horn.

Mélie’s eyes are still focused on that alternate dimension she found earlier.

“Miss Dubois!”

Their teacher’s face is pink with fury – or perhaps exertion from running across the road – lips pinched. Mélie barely responds. She blinks, her mouth closes, and she’s pliable under Amicia’s hands, Mélie lets her wind their fingers together, allows her to guide them closer to the bus, but that’s… that’s about it. She doesn’t respond to anything else.

“Mélie?” Amicia asks softly, stepping a mite closer. She squeezes the hand now clasped in both of hers. “Are you alright?”

There’s a _long_ delay, but finally she mumbles, “Huh?”

“Miss Dubois,” the teacher interrupts. “You cannot be _stopping_ in the middle of a busy road. You nearly got hit by a _car_.”

At last, she looks slowly, stiffly almost, over to the teacher. “I… huh?” She blinks a few times, glances down, realises Amicia is holding her hand. “I got…?” When she meets Amicia’s eyes, there’s fear hidden behind her.

“Are you alright?” Amicia repeats.

“I…” Mélie’s mouth works, but no sound comes out. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie. Amicia can read a lie in her features, the set of her jaw, that _fear_.

“Alright.” She squeezes the hand again and gets the slightest, shakiest compression in return.

It’ll do.

For now.

\--

She answers with, “I have plans with Mélie and Arthur this weekend,” and receives a long-suffering sigh.

“You _always_ have plans with them.”

Amicia feels a growl form low in her throat and has to fight it down. “They’re my _friends_, Lucien. Obviously, I’ll have plans with them. You could always join us?”

She can hear something rustle in the background and assumes he’s running a hand through his hair or something. “No, it’s fine. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

He hangs up.

\--

Winter takes a while to surrender its hold on the world that year. The opening two weeks of February are almost uncomfortably chilly with fierce winds slicing right through even the thickest coats.

Her date-plans with Lucien solidify, become real, something that will actually happen, too. And it’s about this point where she realises _why_ he made the original plan for February.

“Oh!” Cecile trills, leaning into the locker beside Amicia’s before school. “He made Valentine’s plans without you knowing? How _special_.”

Amicia rolls her eyes. “We’re having dinner at a sushi place. On a _school night_. That’s hardly special.”

She feels a _little _special.

\--

She feels _less_ special at lunch when all her friends make fun of her.

(Lucas doesn’t, but the twins do. Well, Arthur does; Mélie is unusually quiet.)

\--

It’s not a particularly _authentic_ sushi restaurant, she thinks, when Lucien pushes the door in for her. More of a classic booths-and-tables space accented with assorted vines growing over lattices between acting as screens for privacy. He takes her coat, puts his hand on the small of her back when they’re shown to their table, pulls her chair out.

The whole thing is… well, it’s a little weird, but _nice_ too in a strange way. The attention and the chivalry of it is surprisingly pleasant.

“Do you like sushi?” he asks once they’re seated and the waitress has left menus.

She offers him a quirky little smile. “I wouldn’t have agreed to a sushi date if I didn’t.”

Lucien’s mouth curls up, exposing his toothbrush model smile again, gets these little crinkles around his eyes with the force of the grin. “Fair enough.” He rests his elbows on the table, sleeves of his sweatshirt pushed up his forearms, the gesture strikes her as the sort of thing he might do if he was going to take her hand. She pulls hers back across the table marginally, just to discourage that if it’s the case. “Did you really not notice that I’d planned this for Valentine’s?”

She blinks away from his face, eyes catching on his wide shoulders again and how they round out in the sweatshirt, the way the fabric creases across his chest. “I guess not,” she admits. “Didn’t occur to me as something we should do.”

“Why?” he asks, head tipped to the side, puppy-dog style and with his floppy hair the impression is heightened.

Amicia shrugs. “We’ve been on one date, Lucien.”

“Valentine’s is the perfect opportunity to fix that.”

“Yes. I suppose that’s true.” She laughs a little – mostly at herself. “I’ll admit I never paid much attention to Valentine’s.”

“Really?”

“Never had any need to.”

He leans back in his chair, smile turning a little flat, disbelieving. “I refuse to accept that I’m the _first_ guy to ask you out.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Thinks. “I… yeah. You are.”

“Arthur never asked?”

And she’s back to laughing. “Oh, no. My parents thought he would, but no.”

“And Lucas?”

She laughs harder. “He’s like a _brother_. Why? You jealous?”

When he joins her in laughing, it’s almost honest, but mostly just relieved, she thinks. “Jealous that they’ve known you longer than me, yeah.”

“Flattery,” she dismisses, but she _can’t_ hide the colour that spills into her cheeks with his words.

“Facts.” He’s interrupted by the server collecting their orders and then he leans back over the table to her. “How did you even end up friends with the Dubois?”

The question lifts her hackles. “What do you mean?”

Lucien lifts a hand, waves it vaguely. “I just… I mean, I _get_ Lucas. But the twins are…” He struggles for a word and eventually – with a lateral pull to his lips like he regrets picking the term – finishes, “trouble.”

Her metaphorical hackles start vibrating. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

He lifts his shoulders up around his ears. “I don’t know. You and Lucas are so… rule-abiding, and then there’s the twins who like to mess with folks, break rules. Just surprised me, I guess.”

“It’s part of their charm?” She shifts on her seat. “I thought you liked Arthur.”

Lucien’s eyes widen as if he’s suddenly realised the possibility that she might be insulted on her friends’ behalf. “I… Yeah. He’s cool.”

“There’s a _but_ in there.”

“I… no!”

“Have you told Cici you don’t like her boyfriend?”

That gets an eyeroll. “Don’t think I have to.” His tone doesn’t suggest to her that this is because she already _knows_ but something else; something she likes less. “Look, I just don’t get how you and Lucas ended up friends with them. They’re not as good at school as you guys, not as socially mobile.” He shrugs again. “Seems like an odd friendship.”

She shakes her head. “That shouldn’t matter. We _are_ friends, and I care about them a lot.”

“Yeah. I know. It’s nice how fiercely you love them. I’m sorry if I made it seem like… like I don’t like them or something.”

“I… Yes.”

Lucien quite artfully directs the conversation off into smoother waters after that. She doesn’t _forget_ that he was borderline-asshole to her friends, it’s just nice to see that he can respect her feelings on the matter. Mostly. Even if he does seem to have some antiquated ideas about social class squished into his head, apparently.

And sure, it’s a non-apology, but they’re dumb teenagers, that’s probably the best she’ll get from him. No one’s perfect, especially not at fourteen.

He gets the bill, offers her a hand up, helps her into her jacket, holds the door on the way out. But he also puts his hand on her waist again, pulls her close to his side as they meander down the pavement to where his brother said he’d wait for them. (The brother who’s name Amicia still doesn’t know.) It’s this weird combination of what he has no doubt been taught respect looks like, and some sort of physical hope that if he keeps her close, she’ll fill the space in his head and heart he’s been told all his life a woman is for. (So she feels a little bit torn between appreciative and insulted.)

And when she’s dropped off at home later, he walks her to the door, stands at the bottom of the steps, _thanks_ her.

“I had a nice night, Amicia. Can we do this again?”

She offers him a wan smile, doesn’t know the answer, says, “Sure,” anyway. The settled feeling in her stomach had been aggravated by how he talked about Mélie and Arthur and she has to wrestle it back to down to really mean it when she widens her smile.

Lucien beams, hops up the steps in one long stride, skips over the middle one. His hand is hot against her side again, insistent, and when he leans in to kiss her it lands on her mouth this time. His lips are chapped but gentle and he tastes of wasabi. There’s still sandpaper on his cheek and his fingers dig into her waist which _says_ something but she can’t be bothered to read it, he doesn’t linger, though, doesn’t try and prolong anything, doesn’t chase it, and that’s better than she thought it would be.

She backs away from him when he leans out until her shoulders hit the door and his hand drops away. “I’ll…” she has to swallow a lump before getting the rest of that out, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“You know it.” And he _winks_ at her before trotting back to his brother’s car.

She watches him go and when the tail lights disappear around a corner she _sighs_ heavily.

\--

“He’s cute, kiddo.”

“Ugh, _dad_.”

“What’s his name?”

“Lucien Mercier.”

“First date?”

“Second.”

Her father claps his hands gleefully. “First boyfriend! Beatrice! Amicia has her first boyfriend!” His voice rises in pitch to carry up the stairs and then he lowers it again, tilting closer as if he’s imparting some kind of celestial secret. “Is he nice?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, dad. He’s perfectly nice.”

He bops her shoulder with his fist, expression creasing into something a little more serious, more dad-centric. “You make sure he treats you well, alright? None of this possessiveness and jealousy crap. He respects you or he hits the pavement, yes?”

“Yes, dad.”

“Good.” He pulls her into a side hug, presses a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. _His_ beard is scratchy sometimes, but it also smells like his shaving cream and home, more reassuring than Lucien. “I want you to be happy, hon.” His voice cracks. “The _second_ he stops making you happy, kick him in the ass.”

She squawks, face flushing. But she returns his hug fiercely. “I know.”

Does he make her happy? Could he?

\--

She decides at some ridiculous post-midnight hour of the morning that the answer to that particular question is not one she can possibly have at fourteen-almost-fifteen.

Doesn’t stop her losing sleep over it, though.


	2. Chapter 2

The first truly sunny day of the year lands on a Friday and everyone at school reacts accordingly. Immediately following this, Saturday is _also_ sunny, and Amicia wakes to banging on the front door and her father – grumpy after being woken before he’s ready – tromping down the stairs to get it.

She’s managed to roll over, bury her head under her pillows and pretend she can sleep some more when her father knocks loudly on her doorframe and yells, “It’s Arthur!”

Amicia groans, pulls a cardigan on over her sleep shirt and socks onto her cold toes, and throws her bedroom door open. Arthur is standing in the hall outside, rocked up onto the balls of his feet, a stupid grin stretched right the way across his face.

“Good morning, Amicia,” he says.

“It’d be better if you hadn’t woken me.”

“Wow,” he laughs as she brushes past him to the bathroom, “You sound just like Mélie.”

“Did you drag her out of bed too?” She slams the door in his face and calls her question through the wood. “What do you even want?”

“That’s not a particularly nice way to greet your best friend on the weekend,” he calls back.

“_Arthur_!”

“It’s sunny, Amicia. We’re going to the park.”

Post teeth-brushing, hair-taming, and face-splashing, she pulls the door open again and takes a proper look at him. He’s in three-quarter length pants, has a soft cap stuffed into one pocket and a rucksack slung over a shoulder from the top of which protrudes the handle of his tennis racket.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Alright. You could’ve led with that.”

“And miss how delightfully you imitate my sister in the mornings?” He cackles. “No way!”

Amicia bangs back into her room to get dressed but she knows Arthur will wait outside for her, probably leaning against the wall the way he does. “Just us? Or have you abducted Lucas as well?”

“Lucas is going to meet us there,” he replies. “But Mélie…” The way he trails off has Amicia’s spine snapping aright.

“Is she okay?”

“Oh… yeah. She’s just being poutier than usual. Punched me when I suggested it.”

“If you woke her earlier than me, you deserved it.”

\--

Lucas does meet them at the park, prepared with a wide-brimmed hat, a tube of sunscreen and _two_ books.

“Are you sure you want to be here, Lucas?” Amicia asks him. “You didn’t have to come just to read.”

He shrugs. “I can read at home, by myself; or I can read here with friends. Not much of a choice.”

Arthur stops beside her, frowns down at him. “You sure? You don’t wanna play a game, do you?”

“No, thank you,” Lucas laughs. “Really. Just promise the next time it’s overcast we can go to the prehistory exhibit on Persia before it leaves town.”

“Deal!” Arthur agrees. Then he’s tapping Amicia on the shoulder and drawing her out of the shade and onto the court. He pulls a ball from his pocket, bounces it a few times and then slams a serve right down her throat. She returns it in a loud squeak of her shoes on the acrylic. “How come,” he begins after smacking the ball back her way, up the other corner, “you wear those pants,” pause to return her ball, “and not those little skirts?”

Amicia lifts an eyebrow reflexively, but focuses on putting some spin on the ball when she nails it back. It cracks against the court and whirls off to one side, sailing clean past Arthur’s outstretched racket.

“Why are you asking, Arthur?” she teases.

He scoffs. “Oh, please. I have _eyes_, Amicia. And a _pulse_.”

“You have lovely legs, too, Arthur. If you wear a tennis skirt, so will I.”

Laughing, he scoops the ball up and punts it gently over for her serve. “Fair play.”

She bounces the ball, rolls her wrist and then serves, a nice easy arc over the net. She accompanies it with, “What exactly is Mélie pouting over, anyway?” though, so it’s probably _not_ good sportsmanship.

As expected, Arthur whiffs completely, tripping over his toe and nearly eating a face-full of acrylic. He catches himself on the edge of his racket just in time, lifts his eyes to glare at her.

“You did that deliberately.”

She bats her eyelashes at him. “I still want an answer.”

Arthur huffs a heavy sigh and snatches the ball back up to serve her – a cruel ace straight from his shoulder that she doesn’t bother to even swipe at. “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “She won’t talk to me.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I guess so.” He lifts his shoulders, defeated. “She hasn’t said anything to you?”

Amicia shakes her head, serves back to him, gentle now, mind occupied with what could be bothering Mélie. “Not a word. She’s just been weird since the excursion.”

“The one where she played chicken with a car.”

“Yes.”

Arthur hesitates before he serves again. “You don’t think… you don’t think she _wanted_ the car to hit her?”

Amicia immediately drops from a ready-stance to loose-limbed and shell-shocked. The ball swishes over her shoulder. “Like… like _depression_?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

Her brain goes off on a tangent with that, replaying interactions she’s had with Mélie in the last few months, the nature of their recent hang-outs, how she is in class. None of it _seems_ too odd, but nevertheless her subconscious can’t let it go. “Well _now_ I do.” She bobs down to pick up the ball but doesn’t serve yet, adds, “What do we do if she is having trouble?”

“How should I know? Probably get her to talk to us, for starters.”

She hums, bounces the ball absently, serves it with little enthusiasm. They rally back and forth for ten minutes at least, no trick shots, no nasty spin balls, no super-powered aces. Just a rally with an easy rhythm to fall into.

Before she can make any promises to talk to Mélie about this, Arthur says, “So Lucien, huh?”

She rolls her eyes and breaks their unspoken truce: lays the spin on hard and grins when he hits only air.

“Rude.”

“Why would you start a conversation with that, Arthur?”

“Dunno. You guys have been on a few dates, gone past Lucas’ ‘one month’ rule.” He shrugs. “Just checking in.”

“How so?”

He tips his racket over one shoulder, pops his hip out. “If he does something you don’t like I’ll beat his ass.”

That warmth Amicia so frequently associates with Mélie spills warm and golden through her chest, fills her up to bursting, oozes between her ribs and up her throat until it burns through her cheeks, her smile, her eyes. “Thanks, Arthur,” she mutters. “And hey, for what it’s worth? Same goes for Cici.”

Laughter erupts from him, full and throaty. “Good.”

“How’s that been? No trouble in paradise?”

He quirks a brow. “You asking because you know something?”

“Nope. Just… _checking in_.”

When he returns her ball that time, it’s easy again, a casual, friendly shot. “She’s been a little odd, I guess. But, I mean, everyone is. Figure it’s just… well, I dunno, learning about her still or something?”

“Alright.”

He must hear something in her tone. “You do know something.”

Amicia sighs. “I don’t _know_ anything. Just that… Well, Lucien said something… strange on our date the other week and… I guess it rubbed me the wrong way.” She hits the ball back a little harder than she means to, but Arthur waits patiently. “I don’t think he likes you.”

“No offence, Amicia, because he’s cute and totally into you; but he’s a little bit of a jerk sometimes.”

“Oh?”

His smile is lopsided, sardonic, _wary_. “Am I allowed to trash talk your boyfriend?”

“I appreciate your honest thoughts, yes.”

“He said something about Mélie once where I could hear. About how she’s… I don’t remember the word he used, but it was something like how she’s a loser. I think the only reason he specified Mélie is because he realised I was there and could hear him.”

His next return is tainted with more than a hint of bitterness.

“Yeah,” Amicia sighs. “That’s the impression he gives me too.”

“Just promise me something, Amicia?”

“Anything.”

Arthur’s eyes are serious when he says, “If he ever brings it down to us or him? Please don’t pick him.”

\--

When she said that Mélie hadn’t said a word, that was an exaggeration; _obviously_ she’s said stuff, just not about the near-car-accident. Any time Amicia brings it up, or asks if she’s okay, or vaguely wonders if everything is going alright in her life, Mélie clams up like she hasn’t done in years. She’s said _things_, just nothing of any real value; almost as if she’s walking on eggshells Amicia can’t see and trying not to break something.

Naseem enters the classroom, looks over at their table and there’s a subtle shift on his face. His brows pull down into a frown, lips pursed, a heat behind his eyes that reads like fury, but what reason does he have to be mad at them. He rips his gaze away and his whole body turns with the jerk of his neck and he sits at another table, slouching low into his seat.

The weirdest part is how Mélie slumps too, avoiding looking at him, not looking at Amicia either. She seems to have more loose hair about her face lately, hiding her face behind bangs.

Amicia reaches out, takes one of her hands. But before she can lace their fingers together, Mélie slips free, busies herself with her work.

“Mélie,” Amicia begins for the fourth time this week (if not this lesson), “you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, obviously. Just… That time of year, I guess.”

Amicia is not convinced, hasn’t been convinced of this answer the last three times Mélie said it either. But like all the other times she nods her head. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

She figures Mélie will give her the same non-answer if she asks again what Naseem said – _if_ he said anything – or why she stopped in the road, or why she’s been so out of it lately. So instead of pushing it, she sits there and worries in silence.

\--

“No, Lucien,” she hisses into her phone as loud as she dares. “_No_. I’m at the museum.”

“You’re…? _Why_? What’s at the museum?” There’s background noise of some variety that makes his voice static and hash – hard to understand in places – but she gets the gist. It also makes his tone hard to parse, so she isn’t sure if he’s genuinely confused or just being weird.

“Lucas wanted to see the Persian exhibit and it leaves next week.”

There’s a pause in which all she can hear is this loud throbbing sound, a very deep bass through speakers, if she had to guess. Then he asks, “Mélie and Arthur there too?”

She shakes her head before remembering he can’t see her and adds, “No. They had… other plans.” There’s no reason for her to elaborate because; a) it’s none of Lucien’s business, and b) Arthur was rather cryptic about it all when she spoke to him earlier.

Lucien makes a sound in the back of his throat, a grunt or a hum or some awful mix of the two. “Okay. Let me know what you think about movies in general, though, yeah? If not this afternoon, then maybe tomorrow, or something.”

“Alright.” It takes a little more effort than it should to contain her sigh, probably. “Do you have a shortlist of movies in mind?”

“Maybe.”

“Text me. I’ll get back to you after the museum.”

“Sounds good. See you.”

She hangs up without replying. “Sorry, Lucas,” she says, turning to him.

He just shrugs, forever the patient and understanding. “It’s fine. I get it, he wants to spend time with you, too.”

Amicia smiles, offers him a fist bump. “He has to wait in line. You were here first.”

Lucas beams, bops their knuckles together. “I’m not your boyfriend, though. I think he’s meant to take precedence.”

“That’s tough.” His grin tips wider and hers brightens to match. “So where are we starting?”

And his eyes light up to match the smile. “Okay, so if you’re alright with it, I have a plan.”

“I expected you would. Lead the way.”

In the last year or so, he’s finally hit a growth spurt that matches her height and all that height is mostly lanky legs, so when he heads off towards the room on Persian farming, she has to hurry to keep up. Lucas already has his nose nearly pressed to a glass cabinet.

“The problem with ancient Persian agriculture is that they had limited water,” he’s saying when she stops beside him to stare at the funny metal contraption he’s looking at. “They became masters of irrigation to compensate.”

“Would’ve been hard to raise cattle effectively too, right?”

He looks up, eyes lighting up. “Oh yes! They had to be very careful with cattle.”

Lucas leads her through the rest of the farming section and into architecture, then to military and society and religion. Each little subsection of Persian history has been laid out with its own area and each topic connects logically – somehow – to those on either side. Often, this means that the subjects in each room contain their own timeline.

Society and military, especially, display a remarkable change over time as developments were made and rules changed.

There’s a whole dark room set aside for a video explanation of the Persian gods and worship.

“Zoroastrianism is fascinating,” Lucas mutters as they sit down in the chairs. “It was one of very few religions at the time to step away from polytheism and unite the idea of a creation myth under one deity – or two, in this case, I suppose.”

“I bet Mélie would’ve loved this,” Amicia says softly.

“Yes,” Lucas sighs. “I wonder if she’s okay? Arthur didn’t say what was wrong today, did he?”

“Not to me.”

“Maybe we can buy her the book from the gift shop.”

“Yes. Let’s do that.” Ancient history may not be Mélie’s favourite aspect, but she does enjoy the societal and technological development parts and ancient Persia certainly contributed to how many civilisations advanced later.

“I didn’t know Zoroastrianism was such a heavy influence on Christianity,” Lucas mumbles as they’re leaving the video room. “Makes sense, but it’s hard to see it from our point of view, now, I suppose.”

They don’t stay much longer, their morning already consumed by the museum. Instead, they stop by the gift shop for that book, and then head down the street towards the riverside where more shops can be found and have lunch. They also stop at a bakery and go for a walk along the water.

Amicia bumps into his shoulder. “I’ve missed hanging out with you, Lucas.”

“It’s never just the two of us, is it?”

She holds her elbow out and asks, “Can I?” and instead of responding he loops their arms together. “Would you want to do stuff more often that’s just us?”

He laughs. “Not even a little. They’re our friends; and besides, it’s more fun to do things that interest us with friends.”

She eyes him, smile quirked, unconvinced. “You enjoy watching Arthur and I play tennis?”

“Of course! And I’m sure Mélie and Arthur enjoy our company even when we’re just reading at my place.”

Amicia joins his laughter, squeezes his arm. “That’s fair, though I’ll be honest, I think part of what they enjoy is bothering us until we play video games with them.” And she leaves unspoken that she suspects part of what the twins like about hanging out with them is not being at their home.

“We should go to the park next weekend,” he says, kicking a pebble along the wooden planks of the boardwalk until it splooshes out into the water. “If no one else has plans already, it might be nice, now that the weather is better.”

“If it’s not rainy, yeah, let’s.”

\--

Beatrice knocks on her doorframe and asks, “Is Lucien coming tonight for your birthday?”

Amicia swivels her chair around, it spins too far and she shuffles it back. “No. He’s not.”

“Busy?”

She shrugs. “When I said I wasn’t doing anything big, just having some friends over, he said he probably wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“But Lucas and Mélie and Arthur are, yes? What about Cici?”

“Yes, yes, yes and no.”

She nods. “Your father is going to get groceries, if you want to help him buy things? You know how he is.”

Amicia laughs and stands. She does know how he is.

\--

The first thing to happen when she opens the door later, is Arthur jumps at her; arms around her neck, throwing all his body weight into it. He yells, “Happy birthday!” directly into her ear.

“Thanks,” she laughs, shoving him off. Lucas is, as always, more sedate about it. And then there’s Mélie.

It hurts, but honestly Amicia is proud of Arthur for getting her out of the house.

When Amicia steps closer, hugs her gently, Mélie flinches. Her, “Happy birthday, princess,” is half-hearted at best and contains none of her usual teasing lilt. She doesn’t return the hug.

“So.” Arthur claps his hands loudly, drawing Amicia’s worried gaze from Mélie and over to him. “Are we pizza or what? Which birthday trauma are you subjecting us to this year?”

She squeezes Mélie gently before letting go, moving towards the living room proper. “Dad’s decided to cook for us.”

“How fancy.”

She lifts a box for them to see. “Mum bought Hugo _Star Wars Monopoly_, for Christmas. So that’s what we’re going to play.”

“Oh, that sounds _awful_,” Lucas says happily. “Monopoly is the worst.”

“Yes, it is.”

Arthur cackles but settles himself down beside her on the floor, cross-legged and grinning the most shit-eating smile she can imagine. “Call the bank!”

“Amicia should be the bank,” Lucas tells him. “Plus, you cheat.”

“_Rude_! I would _never_.”

Mélie seats herself slowly, beside her brother, across from Amicia and therefore about as far away as she can get, leaving Lucas to sink on her other side. It’s maybe not the weirdest thing, except that Mélie also won’t meet her eyes, doesn’t pick a player piece until Arthur ribs her violently. He exchanges a worried look with Amicia but goes back to being loud immediately after.

The one time during their game Mélie forgets herself and speaks directly to Amicia, something hot and fearful flashes across her face and she lurches to her feet, excuses herself.

Whatever is wrong is definitely obvious because Lucas asks, “Is she still upset about something?”

“Yeah,” Arthur sighs. “But we don’t know what, she won’t tell us.”

Lucas tips his head to one side. “What can we do to help?”

“I don’t _know_.” Arthur’s voice is shrill, worried; eyes wide, fingers toying with his player piece, he looks on the verge of ripping his hair out. “I’ve tried _everything_ I can think of. She’s stuck at home with me so much and she just… clams up.” When he glances away from his hands it’s at Amicia. “I think it’s high time you tried to crack her.”

She laughs, low and bitter. “How? She _lives_ with you. That’s a significant advantage.”

“What if she stayed the night?” Lucas asks. “You usually let us stay for your birthday.”

“And what excuse do you and I have for not sticking around?” Arthur asks.

“I could just say grandpa wants my help with something in the morning,” Lucas says with a shrug. “He’s been saying he wants to clean the yard up for weeks. Might as well be now.”

Arthur’s mouth is open to say something but Amicia beats him to it. “Where’s your dad?”

He sighs. “Getting drunk somewhere, why?”

“What if he got locked out and needs keys?”

There’s a moment where Arthur thinks that through and when he reaches a decision his eyes light up. “Oh. That might work. I’ll just tell her not to come with.”

“Grandpa would offer to bring you back,” Lucas says.

“Can I stay the night at your place?”

“Of course.”

Arthur claps his hands again. “Sold. Will you be alright, Amicia?”

“Yeah. We can stay if you want,” Lucas adds. “It is your birthday.”

“And I bailed early last year.”

She just shakes her head. “It’s fine. If Mélie needs our help, that takes precedence.”

The way Arthur’s shoulders drop, he wasn’t expecting her to say something along those lines. “Thanks, Amicia.”

“Always.”

\--

Considering they literally concocted this dumb plan sitting around while Mélie was one room away, it… it goes relatively well.

Lucas texts his grandfather before Mélie gets back with… well, it could be anything, Laurentius is very chill about plan changes. Then, when Mélie has seated herself and ended up back in jail, Amicia reminds them about the whole ‘sleep over birthday’ thing in case they’d forgotten and the two boys go, “Aw, yes!” and Mélie is sort of just, forced to go along with it.

Hugo comes barrelling into the living room while they’re cheering over Lucas winning capitalism and he latches onto Mélie. “Come quick! It’s time to eat!”

Then there’s cake, and that’s when Laurentius arrives.

Post-cake, post-clean up, while Laurentius and her parents are having a long discussion about something, Arthur says, “Mélie, you take the shower first, yeah?”

She rolls her eyes but does exactly that.

And while she’s in there, Arthur ‘receives’ his fake text from his father and he and Lucas hustle Laurentius out of the house. Hopefully, they’ll explain the whole plan to him so he doesn’t feel duped or anything

Robert asks, “What’s that all about?”

And without skipping a beat, Amicia replies, “We’re staging an intervention.”

“A _what_? For who?”

“Mélie. She’s been acting really weird lately and Arthur thinks she needs a girl talk.”

Her father bursts into laughter, pulls her into a hug. “Oh, honey. On your birthday?”

Amicia returns the hug quickly and wriggles free, heading for the stairs. “She won’t suspect it.”

His laughter is fond and it follows her up the stairs. The bathroom door is closed still, but there’s no sound of running water. She sits in her bedroom, texts Arthur, _update_?

_g-man is on board. staying with him_

Mélie steps into her room, borrowed towel over her hair and most of her face. She pulls it free and spots Amicia, eyes ripping away. “Where’s Arthur?”

“Got a text from your dad,” she says. “Laurentius is going to drop him off and bring him back.”

“Lucas left?”

“Yes.” She stands, moves past Mélie and bumps her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Amicia sends Arthur a text when she gets out of the shower that reads: _send her the bad news_, and when she enters her room, she finds Mélie sitting against the foot of her bed, knees drawn under her chin and glaring at her phone. It’s the only light in the room.

“What’s up?”

“Arthur says he’s going to stay with Lucas tonight.” She huffs. “Ugh.”

“Wow. I feel so appreciated.” She drops onto the end of the bed, knees beside Mélie’s shoulder, nudges her, smiles bright and hopeful. “Girls’ night?”

Mélie’s head flops back onto the mattress. “You sure? Would your dad drop me home?”

“No. He’s got to get up early in the morning.” She brushes some of Mélie’s fringe out of her face – ignores the way she flinches away from the touch. “Besides, this could be fun.”

Her lips twist sourly. “Sure.”

“Come on.” She takes Mélie’s hand, holds tightly so she can’t slip away, tugs her off the floor. “Let’s just watch telly, eat chips and pass out way too late.”

Mélie’s movements are reluctant but pliant, allowing herself to be directed to the bed but sullenly. “No gabbing about your boyfriend?” she asks flatly, collapsing onto the bed so heavily she bounces.

“Nope.” Amicia pops her ‘p’, swings herself down beside her, remote in hand. “No gossiping, just hanging out.”

“Great.” She extends her hand and Amicia passes her the remote. “Let’s find something awful then.”

_Somehow_, Mélie finds a channel sequestered away that airs episodes of _The Bold and the Beautiful_ constantly and she accompanies it with, “Fuck me. How is this show still _going_?”

(In ad breaks, they learn that it premiered in nineteen-eighty-seven and is nearing its eight-thousandth episode.)

And for a while, it’s just like hanging out with Mélie was before the gallery incident and Amicia almost doesn’t want to ruin everything to ask her question. Her jaw cracks when she yawns and Mélie turns the television off, wriggling until she’s settled down. Amicia shifts around until she’s close enough to rest her head on Mélie’s shoulder.

As she had earlier, Mélie tenses.

Amicia finds her hand, winds their fingers together, and asks, “Mélie, please tell me what’s been bothering you. _Please_.”

“Nothing’s bothering me, princess.”

“You’re lying to me.”

Mélie makes an offended sound in her throat. “I am _not_.”

“You are. Something happened, Naseem said something, I’d guess? What was it?”

She gets stubborn silence.

“Even Lucas can tell something’s wrong, you know. He’s worried.”

Mélie twists in a way that means she’s tried to jerk her head around and fix Amicia with some form of a glare. “You planned this. The three of you.” It’s an accusation.

“We’re your _friends_, Mélie,” she sighs, squeezing her hand. “You can tell us _anything_.”

She tries to pull free from Amicia’s grip but isn’t allowed to. For the longest, _longest_ time, she gets the same silence. The uneven beating of Mélie’s heart and the jagged intake of her breath is the only thing indicating she hasn’t fallen asleep.

Amicia worries she might not be able to stay awake (won’t be able to outlast her).

But then there’s a barely-there compression of her hand and Mélie whispers, “He asked me out.”

“Oh.” That’s as far as she gets, speaking, because a multitude of thoughts pile into her brain after it and she has no idea in what order (or if) to vocalise them. Things like ‘but we barely know him’ and ‘that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you panic so hard about’ and ‘you almost _died_’ and ‘what did you say’.

“I didn’t.” Mélie speaks in a low broken voice and that’s how Amicia realises she said the last one aloud. “At first. I couldn’t. I… panicked. Then he cornered me the next day and pushed it and I… I don’t even know what I said. I think… ‘absolutely not’ or something, probably.” Her hand contracts again on Amicia’s. “I…”

“Okay,” she says.

She feels Mélie’s surprise through every place they’re connected, it’s an almost violent twitch. “You… okay?”

“Sure. But why have you been weird with _us_? We would’ve helped with this… somehow.”

Mélie barks a bitter laugh. “Don’t think you can, actually.”

“Tell me. There’s more to it. Did he…” she finishes in a whisper, “do something?”

“What? No! I…” She trails off into a sigh that heaves her chest and lifts Amicia’s head.

She pulls Mélie’s hand closer, rubs her thumb across her knuckles. “You’re okay, Mélie.” Amicia twists, lifts her head just slightly so she can look her in the eye, watches her swallow twice, eyes damp and fearful. “I’m _not_ going anywhere, remember?”

Mélie wets her lips, her eyes roll up to the ceiling before she scrunches them closed. “I think…” her voice cracks, it’s so small and broken. “I’m _gay_, Amicia.” The words shiver free in a whisper so soft it’s almost impossible to hear, and they’re accompanied by a shift in Mélie’s weight on the mattress like she’s trying to move away.

Amicia doesn’t let her. She holds her hand tighter, settles her head back on Mélie’s shoulder, hooks a knee around hers; just _breathes_. And when something damp hits her hair, she ignores it.

“Mélie,” she whispers, matching the volume. “You’re my _best_ friend.”

“But…”

“No buts. Arthur likes girls. Lucas has never said anything to make me think he doesn’t. So, I don’t know why you’d think… _whatever_. I’m _not_ going anywhere,” she repeats, firmly. Just as firm as how hard she holds onto Mélie.

Mélie sucks in a stuttering breath. “You’re… you’re not… _mad_ or something?”

She risks letting a bit of laughter free. “No. Why would I be mad? Don’t answer that. I’m glad you told me, though.” She hesitates before asking, “Is this why you’ve been so odd lately?”

“I… I guess so?” The quaver in her voice, the damp in Amicia’s hair and the way her shoulders tremble all tell her that Mélie’s crying softly, but she says nothing. “I thought you’d… leave.”

“Well, boy were _you_ wrong.”

And that gets a sharp laugh from her. “When Naseem asked me out I… _freaked_. And I like… I don’t like boys; I had to face it then because it was _real_ and it scared me.”

“You didn’t have to be scared alone.”

At _last_, Mélie relaxes. “Thanks.”

“One question though: will you tell the boys? Or tomorrow when they grill me, should I make something up?”

She laughs again, shuddering and wet, but it’s a laugh all the same. “I’ll tell them. Just deflect for a bit, please?”

“Sure, Mélie.”

“And don’t…” She pauses, takes another deep breath. “Don’t tell anyone else.”

“Of course not.”

With Mélie’s exhale, Amicia feels like the conversation is probably over, lets herself drift off towards sleep. But then Mélie mumbles, “Amicia? Are we going to be alright?”

“Yes. No matter who you like, you’re _my_ friend and I _love_ you.”

She misses the hitch to Mélie’s breath after that, but she does hear the, “Thank you.”

\--

True her word, when Arthur calls her at obnoxious o’clock in the morning, Amicia doesn’t bother to unentangle herself from Mélie before she answers with, “What?”

“How’d it go?”

“We talked.” Mélie has one eyebrow arched, eyes still closed, but a quirk to her mouth that says she’s awake. “I think she’ll be fine.” The quirk ticks higher and it’s almost enough to make Amicia laugh.

“Well, what was it?”

“She’ll tell you herself. When she’s ready.”

Arthur makes a string of garbled nonsense sounds that could be expletives and they could just be frustration. “Lucas. You talk to her.”

She can hear Lucas reply but not make out his words.

“Arthur.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll be okay. We’ll _all_ be okay.”

He exhales heavily. “Good. That’s good.”

“Can I go back to sleep now? It’s five-thirty and I’m on holidays.”

“Tell that to Lucas.”

He hangs up and Amicia flops back down onto her pillow.

Still with eyes shut, Mélie says, “Thanks.”

Amicia takes her hand again, ready for some more sleep. “I promised.”

\--

It’s… better, after that. Mélie takes a few days, tells Arthur first (warily, and makes him promise _multiple_ times to keep it to himself) and he reacts about how Amicia expected: with a wide grin, a few tears, and a bear hug.

Lucas responds with, “Oh. Well, I suppose at least you know what you like.” And Mélie laughs so hard she has to sit down.

“Thanks for putting it into perspective, dork,” she says when she gets her breath back.

He says, “Some people don’t know what they want until they’re thirty. You’re doing alright,” and it makes her smile.

The whole thing is like a weight lifts from her shoulders. She stops walking around on eggshells, her shoulders don’t slump constantly, and when Amicia gives her a friendly bump she doesn’t flinch away or try to climb inside her ribs and become as small as possible. There’s something bright about her again, sunny, snarky.

It hits Amicia hard between her lungs when Mélie shoots her a knowing little smile in art and she realises that this had been missing and having it back _aches_. But in a good way.

Actually, the more Amicia thinks about it (and she _does_ think about it; a _lot_), the more she decides Mélie was scared of herself, of being somehow different, or wrong, and it made her uncomfortable. And that having _them_ helps, as if having support makes it easier for her to live in her own skin and be okay with it. It seems a lot like asking permission to be yourself, really, which isn’t _fair_ to Mélie, who is a great person, absolutely one of Amicia’s favourites, but at least now she knows to make sure Mélie is _aware_ of how great she is.

And that… that helps.

\--

“How was your birthday?” Lucien asks when she sits beside him in business.

“It was… good.”

“A hesitation?”

She shrugs, gets her books out. “It had its ups and downs.”

Lucien leans one elbow on the desk. “Can I make it better somehow?”

“No,” she laughs. “It’s fine.”

“And what about that movie I suggested?”

“Uh, sure? Is Friday evening alright? I have plans for Saturday.”

He rolls his eyes and says, “Of _course_ you do,” and she can’t tell if it’s sarcastic or not. Isn’t sure she wants to know.

Regardless of what his intention, that’s how he ends up walking home with her from the bus stop Friday afternoon. That’s how he meets her father for the first time.

“Ah!” Robert says, looking up from his gardening. “You’re a lad I don’t know. Must be Lucien. Unless my daughter is learning to juggle?”

“_Dad_.”

Lucien frowns. “I’m her boyfriend.”

Her father hums, straightens, slaps his gardening gloves together and pulls them off, extends one of his hands. “That’s not your name though, I hope.”

“Lucien Mercier.”

Now, Lucien is one of the taller boys in their grade, but Robert is still quite a bit taller than he is, and he makes full use of it now. “Oh, good. And are you staying for dinner?”

Lucien opens his mouth (probably to decline), but Amicia knows her father well and so she cuts in with a hasty, “Of course. Yes, and we’re going to a movie after.”

“Uh huh.” He tucks his gloves into the waistband of his pants. “I was just about to start dinner, if you wanna help? Mum will be back soon with Hugo.”

“Sure, we’ll help with dinner.” She follows him inside before asking, “What are we having?”

“Enchiladas.”

“Nice.”

Robert looks over his shoulder as he washes his hands at the kitchen sink. “You allergic to anything, Lucien?”

“No.”

“Vegetarian?”

“No?” He looks thrown by the questions; not a great start.

“Gotta make sure of these things, lad.”

Amicia and her father move around the kitchen with practiced ease. Lucien, either because he doesn’t know where things are or is out of synch with their rhythms, mostly just gets in the way. So Robert tells him to seat himself and just wait, which he does, but he looks antsy the whole time.

When Beatrice gets home, they’ve just about finished everything ready for the oven.

“Oh,” she says, seeing Lucien in the kitchen. “Lucien, I presume?”

“Amicia’s talked about me that much, huh?” he asks. His tone is more confident this time, teasing, cocky.

Beatrice just lifts an eyebrow and says, “I wouldn’t go that far.” His smile drops from his face like a stone. “Good day, Amicia?”

“Fine, thanks, mum. Lucas says ‘hello’; wants to know if you’d like dates for the chess tournament he’s playing in over the summer.”

“Yes, please!” She shuffles into the kitchen, pauses when Robert leans over to kiss her cheek, and then nudges Amicia aside to take over her work. “Would you entertain your brother for a while?”

“Sure.” She runs the tap over her hands briefly and pulls Lucien up from the table on her way past. “Come on.”

“You have a brother?” he asks, taking her hand.

“Yes. Hugo. He’s five this year, going to start school.” He makes a thoughtful noise but doesn’t say anything. She pulls free of his hold when they step into the living room. Hugo is playing with his skyterror and the monster-car-triceratops Mélie got for him at the carnival. “Hey,” she says.

“Amicia! See this?” He lifts the triceratops to display the pink bow tied around one of its horns. “Mummy got it for me!”

“Wow, she looks so fancy now.”

“Yes!” And he scrabbles across the floor on his hands and knees until the toy bumps into Lucien’s ankle. “Beep beep!”

Amicia sits down by Hugo, picks up one of the less fantastically redesigned dinosaur toys (this one with a colourful slinky stuffed over its long neck, a gift from Lucas) and picks it up. “This is Lucien,” Amicia tells him. “He’s my friend.”

“Boyfriend,” he corrects. He also doesn’t move his foot even though Hugo is still bumping the car into him and beeping.

“I have a boyfriend!” Hugo tells them excitedly. “His name is Adam! He’s going to the same school as me!”

“Not the same thing,” Lucien huffs.

“Open your legs, Luce,” Amicia says softly and he’s clearly so surprised by her words that he just _does_ it. Hugo makes another long _beeeep_ as he crawls through. “Not quite as good a tunnel as dad makes, huh, Hugo?”

“Why is Adam different kind of boyfriend to you? You’re a boy,” Hugo tells him like it should be obvious.

“You won’t have a boyfriend like how I am to Amicia,” Lucien tells him flatly. And there’s something in his tone, or maybe his words (perhaps both), that annoys her.

“You don’t know that, Lucien,” she says.

And it… _startles_ him. He blinks, eyebrows shooting up into his floppy hair. When Hugo makes reverse-beeping noises and crawls back through Lucien’s still-spread legs, he makes another huff and steps over her brother to sit on the lounge chair.

“Does Mr Slinky know the Topsmobile?” Amicia asks, choosing to ignore Lucien in favour of her brother.

Hugo scrambles over to her, takes Mr Slinky from her and gives her skyterror instead. “Mélie said Mr Slinky and Topsmobile are best friends,” he explains. “They have tea together.”

“And the heli-chomper?”

He shakes his head. “He doesn’t like tea. Only lettuce.”

“_That_ thing?” Lucien blurts, then he snorts. “It doesn’t eat _lettuce_.”

“Yes, he does! Mélie made him a sandwich and he loved it!”

“You bet he does,” Amicia agrees.

As if having mentioned Mélie reminds him of something, Hugo sits up on his knees and grabs her wrist with both of his little hands. “Is Arthur still taking me to the dinosaurs tomorrow?”

“Yes, buddy,” she tells him, smoothing his hair. “We’re all going.”

“Oh! Lucas knows so many things about dinosaurs! He’s magic!”

Amicia says, “He sure is,” at the same time Lucien grumbles, “No such thing as magic.”

“Yes there _is_,” Hugo insists, fingers curling tighter around Topsmobile.

“That’s right,” Amicia agrees. “Lucas is magic. We’ve seen it, haven’t we?”

Hugo smiles at her, big and bright and innocent, relieved that he’s right. “Yes. He showed us magic coins!”

Lucien opens his mouth again and, once more, Amicia cuts him off. “_Magic coins_, Lucien. And I’m sure when we see the dinosaurs tomorrow, he’ll have some more magic to show you.”

Hugo lifts Topsmobile into the air and yells, “Yes!” Then he goes crawling away again making beeping noises.

“Your plans for tomorrow are babysitting?”

Amicia frowns up at Lucien while she untangles the slinky around the brachiosaurus’ neck. “Yes. He’s my brother and he likes dinosaurs.” She lifts an eyebrow. “If you’re so desperate to spend time with me, you could come with?”

He huffs. “No thanks.”

She wonders if it’s some sort of portent that Lucien doesn’t seem to like her brother. In fact, she spends most of dinner thinking about that and so misses any of the potential embarrassments her parents could heap upon her. The few times she does tune back into what’s going on, they’re discussing school (what electives did Lucien pick, is he enjoying class, does he do something outside school) or work (Robert politely enquiring about his wife’s research or how Hugo found his day at kindy, and Beatrice making comments about his gardening or his writing).

Lucien is impatient to leave, it’s clear from his body language, from the clipped way he ends his words and the almost brusque responses to questions – he’s not trying to have a conversation, he’s trying to not seem rude so they can go.

“Where are you going, Amicia?” Hugo asks her, taking one of her hands in both of his.

She bends a little closer to him. “To the movies, Hugo. Lucien picked something for us to watch.”

Tugging on her hand he gasps, “Can I come?”

“No, buddy,” she laughs, pressing her free hand to his hair. “It finishes after your bed time.”

“Aww.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Okay!”

Robert drops them off, asks Amicia to text him when the movie lets out so he can come pick them up. Lucien says his brother can do that, but she promises her dad anyway. She’d rather he pick her up than Lucien’s still-unnamed brother.

Now, Arthur has told her how movie dates go for him: he pre-purchases tickets in case they’re late which makes thing go faster, he’ll buy Cecile anything she likes from the confectionary stand, and he always holds her bag when she goes to the loo five minutes before the screening starts.

Here’s how it goes with Lucien: he pre-purchased tickets but not to either movie they’d narrowed it down to on their list of options, he buys one box of popcorn to share and two drinks, and he insists they get good seats before anything else. None of which is really a _bad_ thing, but Amicia can’t help but think she’d definitely rather go to the movies with Arthur.

It ends up being an action movie, which is _fine_, she doesn’t _hate_ those; but they’d been talking about seeing more adventure-y so it’s a bit of a letdown. There’s no magic involve. (Maybe she should’ve expected that when he said magic isn’t real.)

Lucien holds her hand throughout, which seems silly to her, but she allows it. And when the credits roll and they’re getting ready to leave, he kisses. It’s slow and salty from the popcorn, pleasant, she leans into it. When he reaches his free hand out for her though, she pulls away.

“None of that now,” she says, laughing. “Let’s go before the cleaning staff yell at us.”

He rolls his eyes, follows, takes her hand again. It’s moderately annoying because she then has to take it off him to text her dad which of course draws his attention to what she’s doing.

“You’re really gonna get your dad here to collect you?”

“Yes, Lucien, I am. He asked me to.”

Not deterred by lacking a hand to hold, he slides his arm around her waist. “You’re really gonna deprive me of a good night kiss?”

She laughs again but doesn’t respond. There’s nothing to say to that.

He waits with her on the footpath outside the cinema; the street is lit by the lamps, the moon, the occasional passing set of headlights, and the warm glow spilling out of the entrance of the theatre. It’s a strange hazy mix of natural and synthetic; she tips her head back to stare up at the crescent sliver of moonlight, not bothered when Lucien takes her hand again and swings it between them.

His brother pull up across the street, honks his horn, leans out through the window and calls something that’s probably an insult. She feels Lucien shift beside her in response, but he doesn’t _say_ anything. It’s few more minutes before her dad arrives and before Lucien can draw her in for a kiss or something, she’s slipping her hand free and backpedaling away from him.

“Thanks for the movie, Luce,” she says, lifting two fingers to her brow in a mocking salute. “Next time, I’m picking.”

His laugh follows her, big and loud and heavy in the otherwise peaceful night air.

Robert looks at her funny once she’s in and buckled up. “Good evening?”

“Oh, the movie sucked, but it wasn’t awful.”

“That’s not a resounding vote of confidence for the poor boy.”

“He’s trying.”

Robert pulls away from the curb, rests a hand on her knee briefly before taking the stick shift again. “You deserve better than _trying_, Amicia.”

\--

The mad, end of year scramble for exams and assessment-crunch-times and any other myriad assorted deadlines hits her like a truck not long after that and she forgets to wonder what exactly her father meant by that.

(What is better than _trying_? How can you give someone better than your best?)

Lucas, especially, is wild in his preparations for their le brevet exam; he seems convinced it’s the end of the world to fail.

They pile into Amicia’s bedroom every other day, laptop cables a spiderweb across the floor, textbooks filled with more sticky note paper than the glossy stuff they were born with, her wastebasket overflowing with notes scrawled by one of the twins and then discarded. It’s easier for them to pick up flash cards, and Lucas steamrolls through them without concession. What Arthur once referred to as their ‘literacy levels’ have improved considerably over time, but unseen essays still give them both the sort of heart palpitations that would send any over-sixty to the hospital.

Robert is considerate, between his own work and fatherly duties, he does snack shopping and library runs and – once – when none of them had eaten all afternoon, skipped dinner because they were cramming so horribly for the maths exam in the morning, he bundled them all up and took them out for ice cream and pancakes. Arthur and Lucas fall asleep in the back seat on the way home, leaning into each other; Mélie got shotgun but she twists in her seat to snap a photo to drop in the group chat. Amicia sets it as her wallpaper.

Despite all that stress, despite all their teachers telling them that ‘it only gets worse from here’, despite how _exhausted_ they all are after they’re finally released for the year, there’s a thrill that runs through Amicia’s whole nervous system as she tips into Mélie’s side on the steps outside the exam hall. Arthur has his arm around his sister and he lifts it, leans in further, so he can rest his hand on Amicia’s shoulder too.

“We’re done, guys,” Lucas whispers on her other side. (Not participating in the congratulation-cuddle since it violates his ‘no touching’ policy.)

“For the year, nerd,” Arthur laughs softly. “Not forever. We’ll be back.”

“Yeah but this…” Lucas stops, looks up at the sky, squints through the afternoon glare. “Finishing le brevet… It feels important somehow.”

Mélie makes a sharp little noise in the back of her throat. “You taking up soothsaying, now?”

“That’s not a real science, Mélie.”

She yawns mightily around, “Joke,” and Amicia hears her jaw crack.

“Oh. Well, no. I’m not. I’m just… excited. That’s it, you know? Only three years of high school to go and we’ll all get le bac. Am I the only one excited by that?”

“You’re the only one,” Arthur drawls, stifling his own yawn. “How about we go for coffee or something and then pass out?”

“_Great_ start to the summer break,” Amicia tells him, but she’s already standing, her limbs protesting. She offers her hand first to Mélie and then Lucas to help them up.

“Let’s just sleep this term off,” Arthur says, still yawning, “_then_ we can worry about making the most of the break.”

\--

And that’s precisely what they do, the first week of their break (more or less) disappears into them sleeping. Hugo wakes her up the first Wednesday, worried that she’s unwell. Instead of being grumpy that he’s gotten her up before seven, she just hooks her arm around his tiny waist and pulls him down to nap with her. He shrieks and wiggles but doesn’t escape and they fall asleep together.

She spends a day with Lucas, too, sitting in the garden. They don’t _do_ anything, just sit there, leaning against one of the trees in the yard, they drink iced water and lemonade and eat the biscuits Laurentius brings them and nap. That’s it. It’s a hugely productive use of their time.

When they finally reach a point where they decide there’s been enough sleeping, they go to the park. The first time, they go alone, and Mélie spins the roundabout so hard she’s got to be nearly falling off. Arthur climbs a tree that was probably not meant to be climbed and barks the palms of his hands. Lucas buys them ice cream.

“You ever wonder what the rest of the kids at school do on the holidays?” Mélie asks them one afternoon. She and Arthur are sitting in the treehouse, Amicia and Lucas are on the grass with Hugo (plus they’re too big now, no way all four of them would fit up there).

“Not really,” Lucas admits. “It’s probably not very stimulating.”

Amicia lifts a brow. “Is watching my brother stimulating?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I don’t have to wonder,” Arthur sing-songs. “Cici keeps me updated with the shenanigans she and Ana get up to.”

Mélie rolls her eyes. “I bet it’s awful.”

He shrugs. “There’s the mall, they go to Ana’s house and use her giant pool, someone I don’t know threw a party the first weekend and they were all there. Very popular kid stuff. The sort of thing I used to think Amicia would be into.”

“Very funny.”

“I feel like…” Lucas begins slowly. “We should go to a high school party at least once before we graduate.”

What follows is a period of such profound and prolonged silence that Lucas seems to figure out he’s said something unusual because he looks up and blinks at the twins in the treehouse. Amicia looks up too, just as Hugo crawls into her lap and curls up, tugging on her pant leg.

“Can we get ice cream later, Amicia?” he asks, and shatters the spell Lucas had cast.

Arthur leans his hands on his knees, tilts so far forward out of the treehouse he’s _perilously_ close to falling. “_You_… think we should _what_?”

“What?” Lucas asks, voice catching high, bordering offended. “It’s a quintessential high school experience, isn’t it? Don’t you think we should see what all the fuss is about?”

Mélie starts laughing. “Oh yeah? If Lucas wants to go to a party, I want to go just to witness his conclusions first hand.”

Arthur takes a moment to consider that and then a sly smile slides across his face. “Oh. _Yes_.”

“Just _one_, though,” Lucas stipulates.

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur waves him away. “Let’s do the Halloween one at the end of the term.”

“Who’s hosting?”

“Ana, I believe. Or maybe Louis. Depends which set of parents is absent, I guess.”

“At least it’s someone we know,” Lucas says. “I feel like that’s a nice entry level.”

“There’s no such thing as an entry level high school party,” Mélie tells him drily. “But sure.”

“Amicia?” Hugo asks again.

“Right. Who wants ice cream?”

And it’s nearing thirty-two. Of _course_ they want ice cream.

\--

The _second_ time they go to the park, they take Hugo with them. Arthur and Mélie each take one of his hands and lift, swinging him mightily between them accompanied by a soundtrack of his shrill laughter. Amicia spreads a blanket out under a tree where Lucas sits, practicing his newest magic trick to further delight her brother. It’s beyond adorable, the way he keeps trying to guess her card and (when he can’t) he starts pulling coins from behind her ear again.

“You should definitely pick up something new, Lucas,” she tells him. “Hugo will get bored of that eventually.”

“Help me with this card trick, then.”

He has a lucky guess once and gets really excited, calls Arthur over. When Amicia looks up, Mélie is being chased through the field of bouncing animal rides by a still squealing Hugo. Arthur is leaning heavily on a wobbly zebra, cackling madly, but he sweeps over at Lucas’ call.

“Pick a card.”

And Arthur does, pulling one at random.

While Lucas is shuffling his deck together, fingers still a little clumsy, Amicia says, “I saw you in the grocery store parking lot once.”

He quirks an eyebrow, but his focus remains on Lucas.

“Mélie was there, too. She told Hugo she had a brother and he immediately wanted to be your best friend.”

Arthur laughs, softer this time, shining through his teeth and eyes and the slump of his shoulders, the gentle way he puts his card (the two of hearts) back in the deck before lifting his head to look at her. Something about his expression is the same as how Mélie looks at her all the time, but different too. She puts it down to the twin factor.

“Did he really? What did Mélie say?”

“That you’re the same age. Hugo was crushed.”

“I’ll still be his best friend,” Arthur assures her.

“Is this your card?” He holds up the ace of clubs.

Arthur smiles, all teeth and honesty. “Sorry, Lucas, nope.”

He shoves the card back into the pack and drops his hands heavily into his lap. “Ugh!”

“Let me try,” Arthur says, making grabby fingers.

Amicia watches them for a moment, both of them focused intently on the cards, on getting the trick right. Then her attention drifts, across the park to the big slippery slide, glinting chrome in the mid-morning light, too hot to use at the moment; she gets snagged on Mélie, still running around with Hugo, but chasing him now. He’s crawled into the giant castle made of tubing and cubbies; Mélie is too big to fit in it, but she prowls around the outside making angry dinosaur noises as Hugo’s giggles echo from the colourful plastic. He pops his head out and she lunges at him, but he ducks back inside, laughing as she calls fake-ominous threats after him.

“Ah!” Her gaze returns to Arthur. “Like this.” He holds his hands out, cards between them, fingers cutting swiftly through the deck. “Put your card back.”

And when Lucas does as instructed, one of Arthur’s slender fingers makes a quick, barely-there gesture that she almost misses. He moves slowly, deliberately so Lucas can follow and Amicia realises what he’s done. The card Lucas placed back pokes out towards Arthur’s chest just _so_ and when he puts the top half of the deck back down on top, he can begin the shuffle by moving it to the bottom of the deck, and from there can control where it goes.

When he’s finished shuffling, he lifts the top card from the pack and holds it out for Lucas. The jack of spades.

Lucas claps his hands together. “Oh! I get it!”

He goes back to practicing but doesn’t quite master it before Mélie comes galloping over to them, pursued by Hugo. When she reaches the mat, she slows down just a tad and he leaps, grabbing her around the middle so they go sprawling out on the blanket beside Amicia. She rolls, arms around Hugo so he doesn’t take any of the weight from the fall.

“I gotchu!” he squeals.

“You sure did. You really are slippery, you know that?”

He brightens. “A dolphin!”

She laughs, ruffling his hair. “Yep, just like a dolphin.”

When she sits up, she’s breathing heavily, face flushed from running, hair all in disarray, sticking out, falling from her bun, slicked to her cheek and throat. Her eyes are still sharp when she turns them on Amicia and her grin twitches in that way it only ever has for her.

“Have fun?”

“Oh, loads. I think it’s time for Arthur to take the heat.”

Her brother waves her off. “Yeah, yeah. After this.”

Lucas lifts the deck, brows pinched in concentration, he shuffles around so he’s facing Hugo. “Okay, Hugo, I learned a new magic spell, if you’d like to test it with me?”

Hugo’s eyes light up improbably. “Yes!”

“Right, so you take a card…” He flares them out so Hugo can select one. “Now look at it. Show it to the girls, if you want.”

He does, points excitedly at the king of diamonds.

“Good, okay. Now,” he lifts half the deck away, “put it back.”

Amicia is watching closely, so she catches the awkward way his fingers shift, ready to slide the card out and move it to the bottom. Hugo probably doesn’t. And then he shuffles, slow and careful not to get the king lost anywhere he can’t control. He widens his grip a little and pulls it from the bottom, slotting it on top.

He rolls his shoulders. “Alright, let’s see if this magic works.” He lifts the card and flips it quickly so Hugo can see it. “Is this it?”

Hugo squeaks, delighted. “Yes! The king!” He bounces up onto his knees. “Wow, Lucas! Can you teach me magic?”

Lucas laughs, pleased and trying not to show it, ducks his head to avoid praise. “Maybe. I’m still learning myself, you know. I’m… uh… an apprentice.”

“Prentice?”

“My grandfather is the one who knows all about magic.”

Hugo grabs him by the hand and shakes. “Can _he_ teach me?”

“I’ll ask,” he says, still around laughter.

Then Hugo is turning back to Mélie. “Race?”

She exhales, flops a limp wrist over her eyes and drapes herself across Amicia’s lap. “I can’t. Suddenly I feel so faint.” Amicia smiles at her, drops a hand onto her shoulder.

“Maybe Arthur will teach you how to do the monkey bars,” she suggests.

So then Hugo is pulling at Arthur’s elbow and telling him to hurry up. Arthur rolls his eyes for Amicia’s benefit but allows himself to be hauled to his feet and away. Mélie doesn’t sit up, just watches as her brother picks Hugo up around the waist so he can grip the steel bars and help him swing across to the next one.

“You know,” Mélie whispers. “This might be one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

Amicia agrees.

(Hugo rides Arthur’s shoulders on the way home.)

\--

It doesn’t make it to forty on Lucas’ birthday this year, thankfully. But it does rain. All of the plans they’d been concocting over the last week are no longer suitable. Laurentius doesn’t want four kids cramming into his little place for a party and the twins still have no desire to invite folks to their house, so they end up at Amicia’s again.

After commandeering the living room and filching every spare blanket she can find, they make a nest on the couches filled with chocolate and chips and pillows. Lucas gets to control the viewing selection and dictate the activities (he naturally asks to play Monopoly again, having trounced them all so soundly last time) and Amicia sends her father on a pizza run for lunch. But mostly what they do is sit around and watch nonsense.

Amicia gets like, _six_ texts from Lucien throughout the afternoon; queries about getting together or asking what she’s up to, who’s she with, how’s her holiday. She ignores them all.

“Sorry your birthday is kinda lame, Lucas,” Arthur mumbles, three-quarters asleep and buried in blankets to his nose. “We’ll do better next year.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lucas tells him. “This is great.”

And it _does_ pick up, admittedly. Beatrice comes home with Chinese and a great big marble chocolate cake. She also pulls a word game from somewhere and Amicia exchanges a look with Arthur when she recognizes it from Louis’ birthday party.

“Amicia and I are gonna kick your _asses_ at Balderdash,” he says, arranging himself seriously at the dining room table.

“And when did you become a wordsmith, jerk,” Mélie asks with an eye roll.

He leans a little further toward her over the table, grin wicked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

They do keep score for this one – winner is first to twenty, which still isn’t _quite_ how it’s meant to be played, but close enough – and surprisingly, it’s actually Mélie who wins. All her definitions are plausibly obscure things; Arthur duplicates his good luck from last time and guesses the definition correctly _once_, but it’s so ridiculous no one thinks it’s right.

Infuriated, Arthur declares them all cheats, picks up a whole bowl of chips and storms back into the living room announcing that they’re definitely going to play Monopoly now, no arguments. Before they can quite get started, Hugo shambles into the room draped in an oversized blanket, rubbing at his eyes.

“Lucas. Can I have a magic before sleeps?” he asks, voice thing and creaky.

“You bet.” And even though it’s Lucas’ birthday, he pulls a tiny felt dinosaur from behind Hugo’s ear and bestows it upon him with a soft, “This one is very special. Take good care of him.”

Hugo takes it, nods sagely, cups his fingers gently around it. “I will.” And when he turns to Beatrice, he holds it up for her to see. “Look, mummy! A magic dinosaur!”

She smooths his hair and guides him back to bed.

They barely make it through four rounds of Monopoly though before Mélie is back in jail, Arthur is pushing bankruptcy, Amicia has rolled six bad die in a row and tried to buy three of someone else’s properties, and Lucas has launched into a spiel about how the game was actually made to point out all the flaws in a capitalist system.

“Hang on.” Arthur holds up a hand, face smooth in a carefully cultivated way. “Are you telling me that this game was literally _made_ to show people all the way capitalism sucks and we _still_ live in it? How does that work?”

“They turned it into a ‘fun game’,” Lucas reminds him, collecting his two hundred for passing go. “The best way to get people to forget something is awful is to tell them it’s actually fun. If capitalism works as a fun game that must mean life in a capitalist society is also fun.”

“But it’s not fun,” Mélie grumbles, chin in her palm, lips barely moving. “It’s traumatising.”

“What’s the secret?”

“Hm?”

“The way to win,” Arthur expands. “How?”

“Don’t play. That’s the only way to win at capitalism.”

Mélie sits up a little at that. “What do you get for not playing?”

He shrugs. “A less stressful evening with my friends?”

Arthur starts laughing but it’s Amicia who says, “Are you saying… the real cash money prize was the friends we made along the way?”

Mélie stifles her cackles, but badly, claps her hand over her mouth. Lucas just rolls his eyes.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Amicia.”

They pack Star Wars Monopoly away and don’t ever play it again.

That’s how they win.

\--

Within the six-week timespan of their summer holiday, she goes out with Lucien exactly once. They go to lunch, it’s a nice place; warm and inviting and set along the boardwalk near the river so they get a lovely breeze on the balcony.

This time, he doesn’t hold the door for her or pull her chair out, but he’s still perfectly nice. He asks about her break so far, what did she get up to, how did that surge of rainy weather treat her, does she have any plans for the rest of the holiday, is her family going away; that sort of thing. And he listens when she replies, makes thoughtful noises and even though she gets the distinct impression he doesn’t actually care so much when she mentions Lucas’ birthday he still asks a few questions.

Then she asks about _his_ break and gets a play by play which is way too much. He went to the beach for a week with Louis and Cecile and Ana (because Cecile’s family have a beach house apparently), which is clearly the highlight, he talks about it at length.

(She feels _awful_ about tuning him out, but there are really only so many times she can be told that the waves were perfect for learning to surf before it gets old.)

“… and so Cici discovered she’s really not good at balancing,” he finishes, laughing, twirling the straw in his glass.

“Oh!” she says. “Not balance so much, but Arthur and Lucas have been practicing magic tricks.”

His nose wrinkles, brows crease. “Why?”

She shrugs, feeling silly suddenly. “My brother likes it.”

Lucien’s mouth twists into this funny little smile that touches his eyes with confusion. “Your friends do things for your little brother?”

“Yes?”

“Huh.” He huffs, wraps his lips around his straw, eyes still a little confused but watching her with a different glitter now. “That’s cute.”

There’s something in his tone that feels a lot like mockery, but she brushes it off. “Well, you haven’t seen Hugo react when Lucas pulls a coin from his ear, so that’s why you don’t see the appeal.”

At that Lucien laughs properly. “Just coins or does he think he could maybe do bigger denominations?”

She joins in his laughter. “You can always ask.”

This time, when he walks her home, follows her up to the top step and kisses her, she kisses back. He’s shaved, today, so the sandpaper is at a minimum and his mouth tastes like the sugary dessert they’d shared and when his hands settle on her waist it’s too warm, but that’s probably just the ambient temperature. Lucien pulls her closer and she lets him.

When his hands get insistent she smiles, slips free, one hand already reaching for the door knob behind her. Lucien’s groan is at least part performative, tempered by a resigned smile, but he holds her other hand until she’s backed far enough away that he has to drop it or risk following her inside.

“I’ll see you later,” she says.

“I’ll call you.”

He does, too, right as she’s sitting down for dinner with her family.

She sends him to voicemail and doesn’t call him back until the next day.

\--

Just like that, they’ve arrived in la seconde. Their classes are, as always, the priority for the first lunch break. Who has what together, when and which teachers should they be wary of?

Amicia has no classes with Lucien or Lucas this year, instead she has a nice even split, three classes with Arthur and three with Mélie. It’s disappointing, she enjoyed maths with Lucas last year, but that’s just how it is; and at least she’s not alone in any of them.

Mélie sits down last at lunch, right beside Lucas so she can sway over and bump their shoulders together. “Maths with you this year, huh, Lucas. We’re gonna have some fun.”

“It’s maths, Mélie,” he says, eyes narrowing. “What have you got planned?”

Her smile is more than a little worrying, but there’s nothing Amicia can do about it.

“We also have maths with Lucien,” Lucas adds.

“Yeah. And if he bugs us about you, what do you want us to say?” Mélie asks, leaning back onto her palms. “Because I’m leaning towards _punch him_, but whatever you want, princess.”

“Just ignore him,” she says, smiling.

“Right.” Mélie rolls her eyes. “So tell him all your secrets. Got it.”

Amicia leans towards her, her smile mimicking Mélie’s sharp tilt. “You don’t know any secrets to tell.”

She leans in too. “Wanna bet?”

There’s something about her tone, the lilt, the lift to her chin and the angle of her lips; it’s something warm and panging and the sensation echoes through her chest, vibrating around her diaphragm. It’s new. Or… not _new_ but a development of something that’s always been there.

Amicia gets no time to dwell on it because Arthur slings an arm around her neck. “Well, I think _our_ maths class is better than _your_ maths class,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I’m just glad I don’t have to look at your hieroglyphs in class this year,” Lucas sighs.

Arthur laughs a little louder. “No. Only when we’re studying.”

Lucas cringes, but it’s dramatic, fond; he doesn’t mean it.

\--

“I’m not sure what I hate more,” Arthur grumbles, flicking through the papers he’s just been handed. “Maths _exams_ with all their accompanying crunch-times and sleepless nights and early morning panic attacks.” He shuffles to the back of the stack and scrunches his nose at the question. “Or this: maths _assignments_? Take-home mathematical _torture_? Should be illegal.”

“I’ll raise your concerns with the rest of the maths department, Mister Dubois,” their teacher says, walking back past them, still handing out booklets.

“Thanks, I appreciate it, sir.”

The teacher lifts an eyebrow. “At least it’s pair work?”

Arthur claps a hand to his chest; faux-offended. “Sir, are you suggesting that I will partner with Amicia and make _her_ do all the work? Outrageous.”

He laughs and says, “Two heads are better than one,” before he moves further away from them, towards the front of the room, strikes up conversation with another couple of students about the paper.

“Doesn’t seem _too_ hard,” she says, inspecting the first few questions. “It’ll take a lot of work, but I don’t think it’s unreasonably difficult.”

Arthur pulls a face. “Speak for yourself.”

“I am.”

“Oh good.” He flips back to the first page. “So what are we doing?”

“Looks like we’re calculating real world angles,” she mutters. “Seems like it’s designed to show us all the ways maths are useful for… I don’t know. Real life? I guess?”

He sticks his tongue out and blows. “Stupid.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I heard that Miss de Rune,” the teacher calls.

\--

There’s a long weekend part-way through September, and when Lucien asks her about plans, she tells him the usual: she and her friends have things to do.

“Ugh,” he groans.

“I can do Friday?” she offers.

He makes a long, drawn out vowel sound before conceding, “I can maybe swing Friday. My little sister is going out of town for gymnastics, but I’ll see what the car schedule looks like.”

“Text me when you know?”

“Yeah.” Then he hangs up.

Amicia sits with her phone in her lap, thumbs tapping on the screen, for a few minutes, thinking.

She calls Arthur.

“Yo.”

“I have an important question.”

“Shoot!”

She dithers a little longer over wording, then asks, “Do you ever have trouble arranging to spend time with Cici and us? Like… conflicting plans or anything?”

Arthur sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly along with the word, “Yeah. Sometimes. Cici’s pretty chill though, if I have plans with you guys already and she asks about a date I just tell her that I’m booked and she’s fine with it. She has a very ‘first in best dressed’ idea about who I spend my time with. Why?”

Amicia drums her fingers across her knee once, twice, before admitting, “Lucien always gets… _huffy_, when I say I have plans with you guys. Like it inconveniences him.”

“Oh, that’s not chill.”

“No. And I don’t know if I should feel _bad_ that I’m not cancelling plans we’ve made to prioritise him or not?”

“Honestly, Amicia, that’s kind of jerky of him.”

“I’ve never had to say I can’t do something with you guys because I already have plans with him,” she goes on. “We make plans in advance, he asks a few days before hand?”

“I take it he wanted to go out on Saturday.”

“Yes. And when I offered Friday instead he was all ‘I’ll have to _see_’,” she does her best to imitate the tone he’d used, this impatient and resigned one.

Arthur sighs. “If you’re looking for advice on what to do, I don’t think I can help, sorry. Maybe talk to him about it?”

“I’ve told him in the past that you guys are important to me,” she says. “He _knows_ that.” Amicia lets out a heavy breath. “Guess I have to repeat it.”

“Tell him to make plans earlier so this isn’t a problem so much.”

“Yeah… Yes, okay.”

“Sorry I can’t be more help.”

“No, don’t be silly, this was very helpful.”

“Uh…” he’s quiet for a second, then she can hear his voice, but it’s muffled, like he has his hand over the speaker. When he returns he says, “Just filled Mélie in. She says if he’s _that dickish_ you should break up with him.”

She laughs. “If he continues to be a dick, I will.”

Mélie’s voice, not crisp so obviously not at the phone, calls, “_Good_!”

\--

She and Lucien go out to the beach that Friday. His father drops them off on the way to taking his sister to her event and Cecile’s mother will pick them up later so they can go to the movies with her and Arthur. It’s a whole big thing.

“I’ll be honest,” Amicia says, tugging her shoes off so they can walk along the sand, “I’m not too keen on swimming today.” She lifts a hand and points out over the water where a heavy bank of steel clouds are forming. “Could be some rough weather.”

“That’s alright,” Lucien says, taking her hand in one of his, the fingers of his other pinching the heels of his shoes. “If you want, we can walk up to the bluff, get something to eat and have a picnic?”

“That sounds… really nice.”

He tugs on her hand to reel her in and kiss her softly. She smiles into it, shoves him away and he staggers off into the sand, yelling.

“Hey!”

“You have to be prepared for these things,” she tells him. When he catches his balance and stumbles towards her, his shoulder bumps hers gently and she misses a step, feet sinking into the sand. “Rude.”

He shrugs. “You have to be ready.”

Laughing, she lets him hold her hand again as they head along the dunes.

The clouds don’t roll in until much later. It gives them all the time they need to wander up to the bluff, find the little stall selling locally caught fish and chips. They sit under the meagre branches of a scrawny tree rooted firmly into the soil along the cliff, refusing to be bowed by the wind. Lucien even spreads his jacket out for them to sit on.

“Sorry I was a bit grumpy yesterday,” he says, shuffling the chips around in his styrofoam dish. “My brother had been on me about stuff, his girlfriend is pregnant, and it was… he was being dramatic and obnoxious. I shouldn’t have been snappy.”

She leans into his shoulder. “It’s fine, just… If you want to make plans with me, maybe do it a bit earlier? I don’t like the idea of having to cancel on my friends just to spend time with you.”

“I would.”

That startles her a little. “What do you mean?”

“I’d cancel on someone to spend time with you.”

Maybe he means that in a sweet way, but she shakes her head. “Don’t. My friends are important to me and yours should be important to you, too.”

“Yeah…” He doesn’t sound particularly convincing.

“Yes,” she repeats, “they are.”

“You don’t think the person you’re dating should be more important?”

Something about that strikes her the wrong way and she opens her mouth to say as much but can’t find the right words. “I… no. I don’t. You’re not _more_ important than Lucas, just a different kind of important.”

Lucien’s face twists up into an expression she can’t identify, and it doesn’t linger long enough for her to decipher it. “Sure.”

Amicia shifts, introduces a bit of space between them, fixes him with a frown. This conversation isn’t _quite_ going the way she hoped when Arthur had suggested it; her heart squeezes uncomfortably in her chest. “I shouldn’t be more important than Louis,” she says softly.

“He and I had plans for today,” Lucien says. “I told him I couldn’t go.”

She blinks. “You _cancelled_? Where were you going?”

“He was coming to the beach.”

“Why didn’t he come with?”

Lucien throws his hands up. “Because I wanted to spend time with _you_, Amicia. Not with him.”

“He still could’ve come with?”

“No! Ugh.” He looks away from her, stares out over the ocean, jaw tight.

She rests a hand on his knee. “Not every time we hang out needs to be just us, you know. That’s why I invite you to spend time with me and my friends.”

The muscle along the line of his jaw clenches harder. Clearly there’s something he wants to say, but he keeps it in. That’s probably not healthy.

She doesn’t say so.

Instead, they sit in silence for a while, watching birds wheel overhead and the waves crash against the rocks. She can _feel_ the tension and frustration emanating from him, but it fades gradually, eventually, until Lucien’s heaving a sigh again and pushing himself to his feet, gathering up the remains of their lunch.

Amicia watches him, wondering, but after he’s shoved it all into the nearest bin he offers a tight-lipped smile and a hand. She lets him heft her up, lets him press in close, kiss her cheek, hold her hand tighter.

“Let’s get ice cream,” she says softly, leaning away.

His shoulders slump. “Alright.”

They sit in the parking lot eating their ice creams, him trying to hold onto her and Amicia trying to sit on the log beam rather than his lap. She wonders if that’s some kind of metaphor.

\--

When Cecile’s mum picks them up half an hour later, Lucien is still waspish. If she hadn’t been faster than him, she would’ve had to sit in the window seat, trapped there by him, rather than in the middle where she can talk to Arthur.

He gives her a questioning eyebrow quirk and she shakes her head. Arthur’s lips turn down at the edges, a silent apology, but he says nothing, just lets Cecile and her mother ask about their day, the movie they’re seeing, dinner plans, who’s picking them up.

“Amicia’s dad’s got us, thanks though,” Arthur tells her. “Said he’d grab us from the pasta place on his way home.”

“You sure, love?”

Amicia meets her eyes in the rear-view mirror, ignores Lucien beside her. “Yes, thank you.”

They’re lucky movies are watched in darkness and require no speaking. It gives Lucien almost two hours to calm himself down, find some sort of inner peace, or whatever. Amicia sits between him and Arthur again in the theatre, too, and she can feel his eyes on her, hot and accusing.

Dinner isn’t so fortunate.

“So how _was_ the beach?” Cecile asks, leaning across the table, attentive, waiting for gossip, girl talk.

Outside, the gunmetal clouds finally release a groaning rumble of thunder and the first heavy sheets of rain. The inside of the restaurant is lit brightly enough that even despite the hour – only about five o’clock – looking through the window she might as well be sitting here at midnight. A flash of lightning cracks across the rooftops and Amicia wishes she’d brought a jacket.

“Well, it didn’t rain on us,” she laughs. It’s forced but Cecile can’t tell.

Arthur knows. She can see it in his eyes, in the way his hand twitches across the table towards her before he stops it.

“Right, that’s so lucky. Could’ve been much worse. Nothing exciting happened, though?” Cecile’s eyebrows wiggle in a way that speaks so much more clearly than she does what her intentions are.

Amicia just laughs again, breathy and a little sour, deflects the conversation back at her.

Ana had come over the previous night to Cecile’s place, wanting to learn to ride a horse, and so it had been the three of them all morning. Amicia shoots a look at Lucien, but he’s pointedly not listening, busy staring off across the restaurant at something. Or nothing, more like.

“I was _not_ cut out to ride a horse,” Arthur says, trying to inject a little actual levity to the conversation. Doesn’t work, but she sends him a silent thanks for trying.

The rest of the evening is more or less the same. Lucien being grumpy, the rest of them chatting and the weather growing ever more ominous. The sort of deluge that precedes flood warnings.

So it shouldn’t be much surprise that she gets a text from her father a little earlier than she’d been anticipating: _be there in ten. you good?_

She replies, _should be. drive safe_, and looks over at Arthur.

“Your dad?” he asks.

“Yes, he’ll be here shortly.”

“Oh!” Cecile looks at the time and then says, “we didn’t get dessert.”

“Next time, Cici,” Amicia assures her, as if there _will_ be a next time.

Appeased, she calls her mum. It strikes Amicia as a little odd that even in spite of his dour mood, Lucien still pays for her meal. Maybe he’s making a point.

Cecile’s mother arrives first, catching them before they have to make a decision between standing in the rain, loitering in the doorway, or hiding inside and risking the curious looks from employees. Lucien leans in to kiss her and, as his eyes were in the dark of the cinema, his lips now are hotter and more insistent than she’s prepared for, demanding almost. Then he’s gone, asking if Cecile’s mother can drop him home but sliding into the backseat without waiting for a reply. Or maybe Amicia just can’t hear it over the downpour.

Arthur hooks his fingers around Amicia’s elbow, draws her back inside. It’s ridiculous, but she imagines she can feel Lucien’s eyes watching still.

“So,” he begins without preamble. “What happened?”

She sighs. Her recount is perfunctory, but he gets it. Thank _god_ he gets it.

His arms are folded when she finishes. “Seriously? That’s like… mildly possessive. He won’t hang out with us?”

She shrugs. “That’s what he said. Not you guys, just me.”

“We not good enough for him?” Then he shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t think I want a confirmation on that.”

“Yeah…”

His eyes are sad, but his hug is supportive. “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Arthur,” she sighs. “Give him a little bit? Maybe we can figure out how to balance this out.”

“You mean maybe he’ll learn to love us?” He snorts, holding her out at arms’ length.

She sighs again. If she sighs any more she might as well see if that’s an occupation she can take up full time. “I don’t know.”

“Give him a time frame,” Arthur suggests. “Something to work towards with a deadline.”

“You think that will work?”

He hunches his shoulders. “Can’t hurt?”

Amicia thinks that through until her father pulls up outside, honks his horn. Then she says, “I’ll give it until the end of the term.”

It’s… it’s _something_.

\--

Arthur tells Mélie about the whole thing and later that night, lying in bed staring at her ceiling and overthinking her entire young life, she gets a text message.

It says: _if u need me to, say the word n i’ll beat him up_

It makes her smile. She replies with a heart emoji and falls asleep.

\--

Things with Lucien… improve, somehow, after that. It’s subtle, she doesn’t really notice at first. It’s things like him stopping by at lunch to say hello (always to her, never to her friends), it’s meeting her at her locker in the morning and asking about making plans with more than a day or two of notice, it’s how when she offers a day they could meet up he says ‘no’ because he already has plans with Louis.

They settle, just a bit.

The funny thing is that when they do settle, the amount of time she actually spends with Lucien goes down. At first she’s worried why, that he’ll have something to say about it, but it’s because of _him_ and _his_ stipulations that this happens.

Since he refuses to spend more than a marginal amount of time with Lucas and Arthur and Mélie, any time she asks if Lucien will join them, he passes. But he _also_, perhaps weirdly, gets more ridiculous about her spending time with _his_ friends too. This whole ‘spending time with _just_ Amicia’ thing is what sends their time together into a downward spiral and as soon as she realises this (as soon as she _vocalises_ it where Arthur and Mélie can hear) the more relaxed she becomes about it.

“It’s not _your_ fault that he’s a prig,” Mélie says during art one afternoon. “If he really wanted to spend time with you, he’d do so in the company of people he doesn’t like.”

“He never said he doesn’t like you.”

But she gets a look for that – a Look™ even. A look that’s so flat, so perfectly, wonderfully blank of all expression, something so quintessentially _Mélie_, that she laughs at the absurdity of it.

“I’m sorry,” she manages eventually. “Sorry, you’re right. He doesn’t like you.”

“Shocking.”

Amicia sways into Mélie’s personal space, leans her chin on her shoulder. “It _is_ shocking. You’re such a people person.”

Mélie rolls her eyes. “How did I end up stuck with you?” There’s a surface level huff to her tone that can’t quite hide the fondness underneath.

“It was your natural charm,” Amicia tells her, honestly. “I just… couldn’t resist.”

Mélie shoves her away. “Asshole.”

“You don’t mean that.”

She gets another eye roll that translates to, ‘No, I don’t.’

\--

The Halloween party that has been on everyone’s mind since like… _March_, is held at Ana’s place. It’s big, has a giant yard, a pool, and best of all: her parents won’t be there.

Lucien asks Amicia to go with him and she replies with, “Sorry. We’ve had plans for Halloween since Arthur told us. We’re doing matching costumes.”

He rolls his eyes and walks off. She’s not _surprised_ he doesn’t ask what the matching costumes are going to be, but she thinks he probably _should’ve_.

Especially if the look on his face when they show up is any indication.

Lucas is wearing a white sweater over blue shirt with blue jeans and an orange cravat; Arthur got the easy outfit since he gets to wear a green shirt and brown pants; Amicia got the short straw, she had to go find the ugliest orange pullover she could, knee high orange socks and a red pleat skirt; but _Mélie_ complains the most because she’s ended up wearing pink stockings under a violet dress with a green scarf.

She tugs on the hem of her skirt, “Did it _have_ to be a skirt.”

“Yes,” Amicia tells her, hooking her fingers through Mélie’s to tug her closer. “Didn’t have to be that _short_ though.” And she settles a blue band over her hair. “Perfect.”

Mélie rolls her eyes. “You look like a dork.”

“I believe that’s the point.”

“It’s not quite a finished set of costumes,” Lucas tells them, rummaging in his backpack. “But hang on…”

After a moment he comes up with a stuffed puppy, brown with black patches and he’s tied a blue ribbon around it’s neck. While it’s still not exactly right, it’s not bad, and Arthur laughs madly as he takes it.

“Oh, excellent, you’ve outdone yourself, Lucas.”

“I try.”

Lucien sees them first and greets them with, “I thought you said _matching_ costumes?” He’s dressed as a classic vampire, red and black cloak, pointy teeth, slicked back hair.

Mélie mutters, “Ignorant,” under her breath so only Amicia can hear.

Luckily for them, Cecile and Louis aren’t far behind, and they both recognise the outfits, albeit, with two _very _different reactions.

Cecile: “Oh! You guys look so cute!”

Louis: “Ugh. The Scooby Gang, _really_?”

Cecile slaps his shoulder. “Don’t be like that, they look good. Much better than your not-decomposing-yet dead guy.”

“I’m _Frankenstein_,” he hisses, indicating the plastic nail wrapped around his neck.

“From your face paint,” Lucas interrupts, “technically you’re Frankenstein’s _monster_.”

“Whatever.”

“Let me guess,” Arthur says, stepping forward to kiss Cecile’s cheek softly. “Ana is dressed as the Bride?”

Cecile can’t quite contain the loud cackle before she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, she’s not but she _should_ be.”

Arthur takes her hand, gives her a little twirl. “Oh, you’re Buffy.”

She laughs again. “Yep. Who does Sarah Michelle Gellar better? Me or your sister?”

“I think either way I answer that I run the risk of getting punched, so,” he trails off.

Still smiling brightly at him, Cecile leans past and says, “Can I steal him for a bit?”

“Please god, do,” Mélie grumbles.

He sticks his tongue out at her as he’s led away.

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” Lucien says as soft as he can when the music is so loud.

“I _told_ you I was coming.”

His mouth lifts in a smile. “When you said the four of you were doing matching costumes, I thought…”

“Somehow that translated to ‘I’m not going to be there’?” She asks him, bemused.

Lucien shrugs. “You said you wouldn’t come with me.”

“No, and I _didn’t_.” Amicia lifts a hand to her friends. “Wouldn’t be the same if the gang arrived not all together.”

He laughs, offers her a hand. She takes it. Then he turns to Louis. “Still think you can beat me at table tennis?”

Amicia follows them as they bicker back through the crowd. It seems as though most of their grade has shown up, which is probably the point, and probably also an underestimation, given how many people had heard about this. News of the party has had six months – give or take – to get around to everyone, so no surprises it’s packed.

She glances over her shoulder to find Lucas and Mélie trailing them, clearly not super keen on being left alone, which is fair. She extends her free hand out for Lucas to take and he gives his to Mélie so they make a little string through the party. Louis leads them outside where his table is set up and it takes her a moment to remember that it’s _his_ table and this is _Ana’s_ house, so he must have brought it over earlier.

And speaking of Ana, she’s playing some guy Amicia vaguely recognises from her business class (the one Lucien had dropped out of, thus depriving them of the only lesson they had together). She’s wearing what Amicia can only think to describe as a ‘slutty werewolf’ costume: short furred skirt, furry crop top that only slings over one shoulder, leather heels, a _tail_, and fuzzy ears. She has some face paint on too, darkening her nose, and when she grins at the guy she’s playing (who is probably too distracted by all the cleavage she has on display to do _well_), Amicia spots more pointed teeth. It’s… a look, for sure.

“Probably a good thing her parents aren’t here,” Mélie whispers, stepping right up against Amicia’s side. “That’s… a _lot_ of skin for the season.”

“It doesn’t look warm, does it?” Lucas adds.

Ana slams the ball back at this guy and he swings at nothing, misses completely. He throws the paddle onto the table, she leaps up and squeals, and when she turns and spots Louis, it’s into _his_ arms that she throws herself, kissing him soundly but with not a great deal of coordination.

Mélie makes a gagging sound and Amicia can only agree.

Lucien takes a step to the side, jostles them so Louis drops Ana’s weight and she lands heavily on her heels, making a wet _pop_ as they part.

“Very rude of you, sir,” Ana tells him, face flushed and smiling.

Louis hip-checks her as he strides to the table. “Don’t worry, Ana,” he says, “I’ll beat him for you.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

When Ana turns, sees them, she winks. The line of Mélie’s shoulder where they meet twitches, every angle stiffening. Amicia takes her hand.

Ana lifts a hand and waves them over. There’s a rough stone retaining wall with a polished flat top on one side of the wide patio where the table is set up for tennis and she slips up onto it beside a red cup that she clearly left there before her game. She pats the space beside her and Amicia sits, dragging Mélie up as well. Lucas perches on Mélie’s other side, more leaning on the stone than anything else, looking mightily uncomfortable.

“How long have people been here?” Lucas asks, tipping forward so he can ask Ana directly.

“Bout an hour, I guess? Dunno. Louis was here before everyone else.”

“And, um… What is the appropriate amount of time to stay before it’s polite to leave?”

Ana drops a hand onto Amicia’s thigh, leans her weight on it so she can angle herself closer to Lucas. “Why you askin? Lookin forward to goin home already?” Her words are a little slurred on some of the softer sounds there which answers Amicia’s unasked question about the content of her cup.

“Yes. I’ve decided that this is all I need to experience to know I don’t like it.”

She rocks to the other side with the force of her laughter and Amicia has to grab her by the waistband of her skirt to stop her from toppling backwards off the stone onto the grass. “Oh… at least you’re honest, honey.”

“I’m with Lucas on this one, princess,” Mélie mutters. “If you and Arthur want to stay, that’s fine, but could you call your dad?”

Amicia turns once she’s sure Ana isn’t going to fall to her death and when she meets Mélie’s eyes they’re filled with this sparkling, uncertain _something_. The uncertainty she gets, but the sparkle is hard to identify, like she’s catching all the low light emanating from inside, from the twinkling little fairy lights strung around the patio and holding it in her eyes to use later.

“If you play one game of table tennis with me,” Amicia tells her quietly, “I’ll come with you and we can order pizza and eat ice cream.”

The sparkle in Mélie’s eyes intensifies, luminous, like she’s decided now is the time to use the stored light and give it back to the world. It stops the breath in Amicia’s lungs for a moment the effect is so otherworldly.

“Sure. I can do that.”

But they have to wait for Louis and Lucien to be finished first. It only takes as long as it does because Louis has evidently had plenty of whatever goes in the plastic cups and Lucien keeps getting tangled in his cape. He rips it from his shoulders and tosses it at Ana who wraps it around herself like a shawl.

Lucien wins, much to Louis’ disappointment, but Ana kisses him again anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter either way. The problem is that Lucien then kisses _Amicia_ and that interrupts her plan for the evening which has become: play game with Mélie, leave.

She at least manages to walk backwards over to the table, lets him guide her towards it, stops when her butt meets the edge, pushes him away with one hand on his chest when he tries to heft her up onto it.

“No, thank you.” She takes the paddle from him and turns to where Mélie is waiting on the other side. “It’s our turn.”

Mélie is… not as good as Arthur, but Amicia goes easy on her. They rally back and forth for a while until Mélie is comfortable with the paddle and the ball and the rules, then she slams it towards Amicia hard enough that she nearly misses it. Point for point, the ball bounces between them, long enough for Arthur and Cecile to find them and pull up onto the stone bench beside Lucas.

Amicia wins, mostly because Mélie is new to it. But also because Mélie makes a rather grandiose shot and the little orange ball goes sailing clear over Amicia’s head and disappears out into the yard. They all sort of just… stare after it for a moment.

Then Cecile says, “I think Amicia wins by default, for that.”

Mélie shrugs, tosses the bat onto the table and says, “Yeah. That’s fair.”

She texts her father. Cecile is the only one who notices, “You’re going?”

“Yes. The crowd isn’t… well it’s not our thing.”

Amicia thinks she almost imagines the smile – soft and secret – that flashes across Mélie’s face at her words. But she definitely _doesn’t_ miss the relief that washes over Lucas.

“Cool, how long til’ your dad gets here?” Arthur asks.

“You can stay,” Mélie tells him.

“Nah.”

And that time, Amicia _isn’t_ mistaken when her face lights up.

They sit there for the twenty minutes it takes before Robert texts her his arrival, just chatting, ignoring the wider party happening inside and the idiots who jump into the pool from the second storey landing. Ana climbs back into Louis’ lap, wraps Lucien’s cape around them both. Lucien leans into Amicia’s side and for the first time in what feels like _forever_ he doesn’t try to kiss her or pull her too close and it’s _nice_.

And when they’re leaving, Cecile smacks Arthur on the butt and he squeaks in a very undignified way, much to everyone’s amusement.

“Have fun?” Robert asks as they pile into his car.

“It gave me all the information I need about parties,” Lucas tells him.

“It was fine, dad.”

“Well, good. We’re picking pizza up on the way back.”

Amicia misses that part, she falls asleep on Mélie’s shoulder. She’s woken softly when they get back to her house, looks up, blinking stupidly to see Mélie’s gentle smile. She smiles too. Can’t help it.

As promised, it’s a pizza and ice cream evening, and they fall asleep on the couches in the living room; Lucas curled up in the single seat sofa covered so well with a blanket he’s almost invisible, Arthur sprawled out on the floor in a nest of throw pillows, Amicia with Mélie’s head on her stomach stretched across the lounge.

This is the perfect kind of party. Nothing else could ever compare.

\--

“Can I… talk to you for a sec?”

Four o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, Amicia hadn’t expected anyone to stop and talk to her in the library, least of all Lucas who _should_ be at his debate prep meeting.

“Um…” She slides some of her many textbooks off to one side so he has space to sit. He doesn’t though, just paces past her, turns sharply on his heel and paces back, rests his hands over the back of the seat. “Yes, Lucas, of course. Are you alright?”

He pulls the chair out and sits with a _whump_. “I… no. I don’t think so.” Lucas spreads his fingers over his trouser legs, presses his palms down and wipes them across his knees. His brows pinch in thought and his hair is rumpled in a way that’s unusual for him, indicative of having run his fingers through it a great deal. When he looks up from the carpet his lips are parted just slightly, jaw working, looking for words. Then he speaks and, despite having given Amicia plenty of time to brace herself, she’s still not ready for what he says, “Do you… _like_ kissing Lucien?”

She blinks.

Again.

Her jaw swings open. “Do I…?”

“Like…” He digs his fingertips into his thighs. “Is it _enjoyable_?”

“Um… I guess so?” Lucas just keeps watching her, doesn’t speak, waiting for more so she adds, “I mean… it feels nice?”

“It… does.” His tone is distinctly dubious. “Really?”

“Well…” She lifts one shoulder, not sure where this is going or _why_. “Yes? It’s warm and… I don’t know. It’s pleasant in a tingly way.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Tingly?”

“Yeah, like…” She honestly cannot think of anything to compare it to. Until, “It’s nice like a hug is. Like, I know you don’t _do_ hugs, but it’s like hugging Mélie.”

“Why Mélie specifically?”

She thinks about that, not sure why, until she realises, “Because it took so long for her to be comfortable with that and it’s special. Warm fuzzies.”

He mouths ‘warm fuzzies’ and shakes his head. “Alright, I guess.”

Amicia scoots her chair around the table closer to him and lays one of her hands over the one of his still on his knee. “Why, Lucas? Are you… Are you alright?”

His brow creases further. “I don’t… know.” His head tilts to the side. “How did you know you’d enjoy kissing Lucien? Like… before you did it?”

She blinks once more. “I…” Had she known she’d enjoy it? Maybe. “I don’t think I did? Maybe just because he has a nice face?”

“So? Arthur has a nice face,” Lucas points out, “So does Mélie, and Cecile…”

“So do you,” Amicia adds with a soft laugh, squeezing his hand.

His face flushes a deep red. “Sure. So why _him_ and not one of them?”

She shrugs. “Right timing?”

He hums. “I just… Do you ever look at someone and think they’d be nice to kiss? Or just Lucien?”

Her laughter bubbles a little louder. “Sometimes I don’t even want to kiss him.” His expression is serious so she matches the vibe, “I guess so? It sort of… depends on how much I like them. The amount I want to kiss Lucien fluctuates depending on how he’s treating me?”

“Huh. Interesting.”

“Why, Lucas?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Just… When we went to the party last week… everyone seemed to want to be kissing someone else. Except maybe Mélie, but even she knows what she wants…”

Amicia’s brain dredges up what Lucas had said when Mélie told them she was gay. “You… _don’t_ know what you want.” It’s a bit forward of her to be making such an assumption, but it seems the logical conclusion.

His other shoulder rises to join the first. “No. I don’t think I want… _anything_. The idea of that just… it doesn’t appeal to me?”

“There’s a word for that, Lucas.”

He jerks his head around to meet her eyes so quickly she worries she can hear the bones snap and pop. “Is there?”

“Yeah. When Mélie was… well… we did some research together. I can link you some of the stuff we looked at if you like?”

Lucas’ expression brightens considerably. “Yes, please.”

She squeezes his knee again.

\--

(He tells her a few days later that he likes the idea of being called ‘ace’. “Like a pilot, or someone who’s really good at a specific skill, but also someone who doesn’t care for physical affection,” he exclaims happily. There’s more to it, some more specific details, and it’s wrapped up in other aspects of who he is, too, complicating it, but that’s the general gist.

He even grudgingly allows Arthur to give him a side hug – he slings one arm around Lucas and one around Mélie, squishes them tight, declares them his, “Best gays.”

It’s just sheer luck Arthur gets away without being punched.)

\--

The end of term fades into exams and due dates the same way the weather grows steadily and consistently darker. It seems with every paper she hands in, every completed test, the sky turns ever more ominous until, in the last week, it’s a perfectly uniform slate cathedral. With the constant drizzle – and occasionally a heavier patter on and off – comes a chill wind that requires big coats and thick scarves and lots of huddling inside.

So it’s not surprising in the least that she spends the first weekend of the Christmas holidays bundled up all by herself, entertaining Hugo who is more than the usual amount of distressed over not being allowed to adventure outside. It’s why she goes to sleep early and wakes up late, buried in several layers of blankets. It’s why none of them make plans for Mélie and Arthur’s birthday, which falls in the first week of the break.

She texts them back and forth, but they don’t meet up.

Which is perhaps why Amicia responds so _viscerally_ to being woken sometimes after one in the morning by her phone going absolutely batshit on her bedside table.

She scrubs a hand over her eyes, blinks blearily through the gloom – room lit only by her flickering phone screen and the occasional slash of lightning – and scrabbles to pick it up. There are a truly alarming number of texts from Arthur, but she can only see the most recent: _pls be awake_.

Unlocking her phone, squinting because it seems to be glaringly bright in the darkness, she finds the rest of the texts and her heart stops cold.

_amicia_

_emergency_

_pls we need a ride to the hospital_

_emergency lines are slammed atm_

_need u_

_pls amicia_

_god it’s so late_

_pls be awake_

She taps out a quick reply:_ awake now? whats wrong_

The bubbles pop up immediately to show he’s typing back. _mélie_

Amicia tosses her covers aside and leaps from bed, pulling socks on hastily and stamping into her shoes before grabbing her heavy coat off the back of her chair and shrugging into it as she heads down the hall to her parents’ room. Her phone beeps again on the way and she swipes to look at it.

There’s a photo attachment and when it loads, she wishes it hadn’t. It’s what Amicia assumes is their living room, a table with a glass top has been shattered and there are sparkling bits of glass everywhere, a distressing amount of them have blood spots. Sitting amongst all the glass is Mélie with a thick white towel pressed over her face and it too is soaked in blood.

Amicia shoves her way into her parent’s room and flicks the light on. Both of them are fairly light sleepers and her mother instantly rolls over, glaring at her through one sleepy eye.

“Dad,” Amicia says, suddenly _much_ more awake than before. “Dad.” She shoves his shoulder. “Get up. I need a ride.”

“Amicia,” Beatrice creaks, “it’s not even two in the morning.”

She holds out her phone so her mum can see the picture. “We have to go. Now.”

Then Beatrice is shoving at Robert too and he sits up, grumbling. “Oh my _god_, I’m awake. _What_?” Both of his eyes shoot wide open when he catches sight of the picture too and he’s staggering from the bed before Amicia can step back and give him room.

He asks no further questions, just starts pulling on layers, so Amicia leaves the room and texts Arthur, _we’re on our way_.

Robert tucks her under his arm as they scurry through the downpour to his car. “What happened?” he asks as he keys the ignition. It takes longer than she might like to start the car.

She shakes her head. “Arthur didn’t say. Looks like she fell through the coffee table.”

He grunts and they sit in tense silence the whole way. It’s not until they reach the first intersection that Amicia realises she’s never _been_ to Mélie’s house before, so she doesn’t know where it is. Arthur texts her the address when she asks, though and it’s thankfully not somewhere really obscure. Robert, it turns out, probably drives past it whenever he goes to his office.

The only sounds the whole way there is the sheeting rain and Amicia’s heart going too fast to be healthy.

There’s a light on in only one window along the street so that’s the drive Robert pulls into. Amicia is out of the car, dashing heedless of trip-hazards through the rain, to the door before he even has it fully parked. She bangs on the door and it’s pulled in not five seconds later by a frazzled Arthur.

He has a cut along one side of his nose leaking a thing trail of blood and there’s a smear across his chin from another nick that’s longer and maybe deeper. There are stains all down the front of his blue shirt and his palms are dyed and flaking with even more. He looks a mess, but he steps aside and lets her in.

Her eyes whip immediately to Mélie, sitting curled up on the floor exactly where she’d been when Arthur took the photo, still with a towel pressed to her face. It’s a darker red now than before. Another towel, also bearing slowly spreading red, is wrapped around her left arm. She’s so focused on Mélie that she doesn’t see anything else about the room; later, she won’t be able to describe a single thing in it other than the shattered table.

Amicia steps over and her shoes crunch on glass. Mélie’s head lifts at the sound, her whole body flinching away, further into the field of shards.

“Mélie,” Amicia says softly, brokenly. “My dad’s here. To go to the hospital.”

At the sound of her name, Mélie’s shoulders drop, some of the tension oozing from her body. “Amicia?” She shifts the towel a little so her right eye is visible, red rimmed and bloodshot from crying.

Very gingerly, Amicia crosses the minefield until she can crouch in front of her. “Yeah. Can you move?”

She nods, just barely, and lets Amicia take her by the elbow and help her to her feet. The hand in Amicia’s shakes and there’s a tremble to her shoulders that she can feel when Mélie presses closer. She grips Amicia’s hand in her right one so tightly she’s sure she can feel the bones rub together, but Mélie allows herself to be guided towards the front door where Robert is now standing. There’s something in his face that speaks of concern, yet something in his posture that speaks of pure, unadulterated _anger_ and Amicia doesn’t know why that might be.

“Grab a blanket, Arthur,” Robert says quietly, indicating the lounge chair. “Just in case.”

He does so, tucks a pillow under his arm too, and follows Amicia out as she leads Mélie through the rain and to the car. She hears the door swing closed behind her but is reasonably sure it doesn’t get locked. The weird part is when the light in the living room goes off as she’s helping Mélie into the backseat and crawling in after.

Lightning flashes and she spots the car on the other side of the driveway; their father’s, she assumes. She opens her mouth to ask why he couldn’t have taken them to the hospital, but her teeth click together when she realises. A shiver that has nothing to do with being cold and wet runs down her spine and she clutches Mélie tighter.

Arthur rides shotgun so as not to jostle Mélie’s injuries, but he spends most of the fifteen-minute drive to the nearest hospital twisted in place to stare at his sister as if afraid that, should he look away for a _second_, she might disappear. Amicia totally understands this fear, and when he passes them one of the blankets, she wraps it tightly around them both. She presses her nose to the side of Mélie’s head she to prove to herself that she’s there.

Robert drives as fast as he can in the dangerous conditions, so the trip takes longer than any of them might like, but eventually they do spot the enormous glowing structure at the end of one street. Pulling into the lot under the orangey street lamps and hurrying through the doors into the eerily white foyer with Mélie wrapped in a blanket and Amicia’s arms feels like some horrible, awful nightmare sequence.

A nurse catches them while Robert strides to the desk.

“What happened?” the woman asks.

“Fell through a table,” Arthur mumbles, not meeting her eye. He rubs at the smear on his chin, rearranging the marks and disturbing the hardening blood so that more runs free.

The nurse looks between them, at the blood-soaked towel, at the shiver in Mélie’s shoulders. “Come on,” she says, “let’s get you looked at.”

Amicia waves at her father and he nods, watches them go with the nurse. When they reach one of those little rooms with sliding curtains for privacy, the nurse plucks at Amicia’s hold on Mélie, pries her free. She and Arthur are reluctant to let her go but the nurse is insistent.

“We’ll sit here and wait, okay?” Arthur says. Tears are leaking from Mélie’s eye again.

As soon as the curtain is closed, she rounds on Arthur. “How bad is it?”

And he starts crying too. “I don’t _know_,” he says, fighting back sobs. Amicia pulls him into a hug. “I thought it took her eye out but… hopefully she’s fine. _Gods_, Amicia, there was so much _blood_.”

She pulls him tighter, as tight as she can, squeezes for all she’s worth.

“What did he do?”

Arthur tenses, but he doesn’t ask how she knows. “He came home drunk. He’s always angry when he’s drunk. I wasn’t in the room, but I heard her say something. When I came in he had her around the throat, threw her into the table, shoved me after her when I tried to stop him.” He has his nose tucked into Amicia’s collar, but she’s already so drenched from the rain she can’t feel when his tears land on her shirt.

They slump onto the padded bench across the way from the curtained area Mélie was led to, leaning heavily into each other. Amicia’s eyes are grainy from the hour and crying but she’s not so tired just yet that she can’t hold onto Arthur tight enough to bruise. Robert joins them a little while later and he has styrofoam cups of hot chocolate.

Another nurse comes by, has Arthur sit up so he can inspect and clean and put little sticky bandages over the cuts on his face and hands. He asks a few more questions, but Arthur just keeps saying it was an accident. The nurse seems to know he’s lying but doesn’t press further.

When his cup is empty, Arthur’s weight leaning into her side doubles and when she looks down, he’s fallen to sleep. She lets her head rest on top of his. And it’s not until she blinks her eyes open and finds her father looking at her, one hand on her shoulder, that Amicia understands she drifted off too.

“They’re taking her into another room,” he says. “She’s getting stitches.”

“Her eye?” Arthur croaks.

“Fine. The glass didn’t get high enough to danger her eye. But it sliced through her cheek and lip deeply enough to need stitches. And there are cuts on her arm that need it too.”

Arthur slumps, relaxing just a little. “Can we wait for her?”

Robert smiles. “You kids can probably live with a night of sleeping on these chairs, but not me. Come on, I’ll show you the room she’ll be in and you can wait there.”

“She’s staying overnight?” Amicia asks.

“Yes. She can come home with us in the morning after she’s rested and been given something for the pain.”

So they follow him sluggishly down the white halls and nod blearily when he points to a door. Then they’re slumping into the seats and each other, heads tipped back against the wall. Robert kisses her on her crown, squeezes Arthur’s shoulder and murmurs that he’ll be in the cafeteria.

The next thing she knows there’s something squealing obnoxiously in her ear and she sits up abruptly, groaning when her back pops unpleasantly. Her elbow meets something soft and she when blinks over she sees Arthur. The squealing is a wheelchair. Some kid is sitting not far from them, staring, twisting the wheel back and forth over and over.

The events of the night crash into her and she leaps to her feet.

Arthur, who’d had his head on her shoulder, tips to one side, loses his balance and wakes in a jolt just in time to catch himself from falling off the chair. It’s probably not the most enjoyable way to wake up. But she doesn’t give him any time to gather himself, just takes his hand and hauls him up and into the room opposite them.

It’s a public space, three curtained beds on each side of the room and no way to know which is Mélie. There _is_, however, a doctor checking the charts in the basket on the end of one bed, so Amicia drags Arthur over to the woman and asks after Mélie.

The doctor blinks at them, checks the chart, then scans her eyes along the curtains and indicates one. Amicia has no idea what about this one indicated Mélie’s presence, but when she pulls the curtain aside, there she is; propped up against crisp white pillows, wearing a clean bluish shirt and entirely free of blood.

Arthur pulls his hand free and they both perch on the bed, one to either side, one to hold each her hands. There’s a long, crooked line on Mélie’s left cheek, angry and red and held together by fine sutures, a little white bandage is curled around her chin, too, matching Arthur’s. Her left forearm has been wrapped tightly in clean white bandages, so whatever suturing was done there has been hidden. Arthur takes that hand carefully and at his touch, Mélie’s eyes flutter open.

“Oh.” Her voice is a painful croak. “Hey.”

“_Hey_?” Arthur repeats, his voice pitching high and broken.

“Yeah. Hey.” Her lips curl up into a smile but it tugs on her stitches and she winces, face falling expressionless again. “Talking hurts. Smiling hurts. This sucks.” Her head lolls to the other side, something impossibly small in her expression shifting when she sees Amicia. “Thank you.”

She shakes her head. “Arthur texted. He did the most.”

“You had to wake your old man up at two in the morning to come get us,” Arthur reminds us. “That’s a lot.”

Amicia shrugs. “My dad loves you guys.”

Mélie’s chest lifts with a breathy laugh. “You think he loves us enough to let us stay a while?”

“As long as you need, Mélie.” All three of them look over to see Robert standing off to one side, smiling. “You can stay with us as long as you need to. As long as you want.”

When Amicia turns back, both of them are crying silently. Mélie threads their fingers together and squeezes.

\--

Lucien texts her at seven, before Mélie is released from the hospital, asks if it’s too late to make plans for today.

_the weather’s clearing up. you wanna hang?_

_can't_, she replies, _at the hospital. mélie had an accident, will be busy this week_

He doesn’t text again.

\--

The weather does, in fact, clear up. Sunlight shines through the thick grey the entire morning, illuminating their way home from the hospital. Mélie is groggy from whatever anaesthetic they put her on for the stitches, and Arthur and Amicia are both bleary eyed from getting maybe six hours sleep total the whole night, but it feels promising to see the sun all the same.

Beatrice hugs both of the twins when they get to Amicia’s house, bustles them about, all but shoving Arthur face first into the shower. She throws out his shirt (after checking that it’s not important) and finds something else, less blood-stained, for him to wear. She fusses over Mélie’s face, listens to Robert’s explanation of care instructions and then she flies from the house in a flurry. She returns maybe an hour later – all three of them are squished onto a sofa, soft and damp from showers and bundled in too-big sweaters and blankets – with instant pancake mixture, several tubs of ice cream and an assortment of apparel for the twins to try on.

(Arthur starts crying again.)

Mélie dozes most of the day, cushioned securely between them both. Hugo joins them for a while, marvels over the sutures on her face, declares her the bravest person he’s ever known. She’s asleep, misses the whole thing, but Arthur is quick enough to record it on his phone.

Robert asks Hugo if Arthur can share his room for a while, they’ll have a sleepover, and he’s so thrilled by the idea he nearly startles Mélie awake.

“Yes,” he exclaims, clapping his hands. “We can build a fort?”

“Shh, buddy,” Robert hushes, chuckling softly. “Let Mélie sleep.”

Hugo slaps his hands over his mouth, eyes wide above them as he stares at Mélie. “Sorry.”

Arthur just laughs. “Of course we can build a fort. That sounds like fun.”

Hugo crawls up onto the sofa and joins their pile.

\--

Amicia doesn’t wake up again until the sun is setting. Mélie is a soft, warm weight on her side and Arthur is leaning against his sister, Hugo bundled up in his lap. Her phone is vibrating, evidently what ruined her nap.

By the time she’s fished it from her back pocket, Lucas’ name flashes on the screen under the words ‘missed call’. She lifts it to her ear and hits redial. He answers almost immediately.

“Amicia! Why haven’t you been answering? Where’s Arthur?” His voice is so loud she worries it’ll wake the others so she lowers the volume on her phone. It’d be more effective to leave, but since she’s on the bottom of their huddle, it’d likely do more harm than good.

“Shh. Relax, Lucas,” she whispers. “We’re fine.”

There’s a moment of silence, then, “We? Arthur’s with you?”

“Yeah, and Mélie too.”

Another beat. “I wasn’t invited?” his voice is low, creaky, worried.

“Less you not being invited, and more just we’re all really tired. Arthur got me up at two this morning to go to the hospital.” Lucas sucks in a sharp breath. “Mélie… fell through their coffee table, cut up her face and arm pretty badly. Dad drove us all to the hospital so she could get stitches. She’s sleeping off the anaesthetic.”

“Shit,” he breathes. “Should I come over?”

She pulls the phone away to check the time. “Tomorrow. Come over tomorrow. Hopefully she’ll feel a bit better by then. We can have a proper sleepover.”

He exhales. “Alright. Tell Arthur to call Cici.”

“I love that she texts you when she can’t find him.”

Lucas laughs. “Debate team buddies doesn’t stop just because she left us.” His voice softens when he adds, “Take care of her.”

“I will. See you tomorrow.”

He hangs up, she squishes her phone between her hip and the armrest and twists a little to alleviate some of the ache of having two friends and a brother leaning over the top of her. She’s not sure if it’s her fault or not, but Arthur shifts, blinks at her over Mélie’s head.

“Alright?” he asks, throat rough.

“Just filling Lucas in,” she replies in a whisper. “He’s coming over tomorrow.”

Arthur nods, closes his eyes and turns his face into Hugo’s soft hair.

\--

Mélie gets her bed, but she struggles to sleep until Amicia climbs in with her. Arthur sleeps on the floor in Hugo’s room after turning the whole thing into a mess of couch cushions and throw pillows and spare bedsheets. In the morning he goes with Robert back to their house and collects some of their things.

Lucas arrives before lunch and they all end up squished into Hugo’s fort playing pretend for much of the day. None of them mention what happened, Lucas takes one look at Mélie, glances at Arthur, and he _knows_ what Amicia meant when she said it was an accident. But they don’t speak of it, and that seems fine by the twins.

Their birthday is two days after the trip to the hospital – _two freaking days_, Arthur had said their dad called them the worst early Christmas present, but she thinks that’s rich from the asshole who threw his kids into glass two days before their birthday. It… well, it kind of sucks a lot.

Mostly because Mélie struggles with solid food given the stitches in her lips and how chewing too much aggravates the cut up her face. So they don’t get cake and mostly what they eat is stews and broths and soups and Mélie apologises for ‘ruining their Christmas’ before it even happens.

“You’re not ruining our Christmas,” Amicia whispers into her shoulder the night of their birthday. “You’re _not_. I’m sorry you had a shitty birthday.”

“Feels like I am,” she mumbles. “Taking advantage of hospitality or some shit.”

“You were in _hospital_, Mélie.” Amicia hooks an elbow around her waist and wriggles closer.

“Yeah. Because my dad’s an asshole and decided to scar my face.” And that’s it. The first time any of them have said it aloud. “Now I’m here and your mum is gonna make assorted soups for Christmas and that feels a lot like harshing the vibes.”

Amicia laughs at her word choice but hugs her harder anyway. “Don’t be silly.” She nudges Mélie carefully in the ribs. “Besides, I’ve heard chicks dig scars.”

She can’t see it through the darkness of her room, not even this close, but Amicia _swears_ Mélie goes red and chooses to ignore the second part. “Oh. So you have soup for Christmas every year then?” There’s a strangled note to her voice that supports this theory.

“No. But this isn’t every other Christmas.” She tucks her nose into Mélie’s shoulder. “This is Christmas where two of my best friends had something awful happen and now they’re staying here for the entire break. That’s pretty special. Never happened before.”

“So soup is _special_, then?”

“It is this year.”

“You’re a real weirdo, you know that?”

“Yes, I do. But you love me.”

“Yeah.”

\--

Arthur and Mélie spend the entire two-week Christmas break with them. It’s fun, despite Mélie constantly making comments about how she can ‘get out of their hair’ if they want. Beatrice looks her dead in the eye on Christmas morning and says, “And am I to understand your mother will be changing your bandages?” and when she gets nothing but flustered sputtering from Mélie and poorly concealed fear from Arthur, adds, “That’s what I thought. You’re not going anywhere.”

And they don’t argue with Beatrice.

(They go back to the hospital a few days after Christmas – about eleven days after the first time – to get Mélie’s stitches out and have her checked. It _will_ scar, but with proper care it’ll heal just fine.)

Honestly, Amicia half expects them to be too cowed to go home ever (she wouldn’t complain, the house is busier, more crowded, but in a nice way). And yet when term goes back, they stay with her only for the first week before returning – grudgingly – to their house.

Amicia gets a few texts from Lucien again, asking to hang out, how’s she doing. She tells him about Mélie’s accident and he’s weirdly dismissive of it.

“But we can still meet up, right?” he asks.

She’s sitting on her bed while Mélie showers, shifting uncomfortably, bouncing a little on the spot as she tries to find a way to sit nicely. “No, Lucien. We can’t. My friend got _hurt_.”

“Yeah. But she doesn’t need babysitting.”

Amicia shakes her head, pointlessly. “Not babysitting, just support for her, you know. It’s been a rough few weeks for her. It was right before her _birthday_, Luce. Maybe later.”

She can practically _hear_ his eye roll. “Sure, Amicia. Maybe later.”

They do not meet up. The only thing that happens is he calls her again and they have a yelling match that is actually so softly whispered it barely deserves the name.

“We’re on break, Amicia,” he says in a fairly moderate tone. “She doesn’t need to be looked after, we can meet up.”

“No. You’re not listening, I told you –”

“You’ve got plans,” he interrupts. “Somehow, this doesn’t count.”

The whole conversation is like talking to a wall, so she hangs up on him. Just like that.

Going back to school is… not seeming like a good thing after that.

\--

And it’s not.

He corners her after she’s parted ways with the others on the way to form room. His class isn’t near hers, so he’ll probably be late to roll, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. As soon as he spots her he’s striding over, grabbing her elbow, guiding her away from the crowd of students to a corner where they can’t be overheard. The only one to notice at all is Cecile (still, really, the single person in her form she knows), she pauses in the doorway, makes to wait, but Amicia waves her off.

“Morning, Lucien,” she says, trying to keep her tone neutral and not let him hear the wobble.

“Hi.” He wrings his hands, stuffs them in his pockets probably just to do something with them, to keep them still. Maybe he’s feeling a bit of anxiety too.

Amicia isn’t sure she knows the source of the anxiety, or what horrible thing that’s being predicted by the swirling in her stomach, but she knows it’s there and a possibility and definitely has to do with Lucien.

“If this is about the break…” she begins, trails off because she doesn’t know where she’s going.

“It is,” he agrees before she has to work it out. He sighs. “Why couldn’t you have just… Just _once_ we could’ve spent some time together, surely.”

“Mélie was in _hospital_, Lucien,” she reminds him for the nth time.

“Not the whole time.”

“She went through a _pane of glass_.”

He rolls his eyes and his shoulders, body weight shifting onto his heels, away from her. Amicia feels her jaw tighten, something hot and burning chases the anxiety out of her stomach.

“If you can’t deal with me looking out for my friends…”

“It’s not just looking _out_ for them, Amicia,” he says, voice rising. “You’d rather spend time with them than me.”

“You’d rather _not_ spend time with me instead of dealing with hanging out with my friends too,” she counters. “Just because you don’t like them shouldn’t mean you can’t put up with them.” She lifts a hand and throws it vaguely out over his shoulder. “I don’t like Louis but I can deal with it.”

Lucien’s shoulders jerk up and back, squaring. “You don’t like him?”

“No. What’s to like?” Her hand flops back to her side. “Look. I told Arthur I’d give you until Christmas to see if we could work out some sort of balance here. Some middle ground. We clearly can’t.”

He blinks at her, hands fiddling in his pockets. “What’s that mean?”

“It means…” She sucks in a deep breath, takes a step back. “It means if you can’t respect my friends and my choice to spend time with them when they need it, then we can’t keep calling this… whatever it is. We’re done.”

Lucien’s face twitches, his features curling up into something like a smile, but way more confused around the edges. “You’re… you’re breaking up with me.”

Amicia lets the breath whoosh out and it sounds like relief. “Honestly, I feel like I should’ve done it sooner. Yes. I’m breaking up with you.”

He takes one step closer and she takes two more back, closer to her classroom, the students inside can see her through the window. Whatever he takes from that, it stops him as if he’d just walked face first into a brick wall.

His face goes slack. “Huh.” And that’s barely a word, not even a thought, just a grunt. He steps away too, a slow frown forming, fixed on the carpet between them. “We’re…”

“Not a ‘we’ anymore, Lucien.” To herself, she wonders if they ever really were.

When he lifts his eyes to look at her, there’s something sad coiling behind them. He swallows. “Okay.”

“You’re not going to argue?”

“I think…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “we’ve done enough of that.”

And really? That’s the most reasonable thing he’s said in _months_. “Yes. I think we have.” So she turns, walks into form and leaves him there.

He doesn’t talk to her again.

\--

She expects to feel sad. That’s what people are supposed to feel, right? After a breakup? Maybe there’s a little bit of sorrow in her chest, niggling, but it’s overshadowed by the relief of not having to try and cram him into her life.

Somehow, she feels like if he was meant to be there, he wouldn’t need cramming. He’d just _fit_, the way her other friends do.

Arthur, in particular, treats her like he thinks she should be crushed.

“If you wanna talk about it…” he offers during maths, voice pitched low.

“No… I think I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

“You sure?”

She pauses to think it through. “Yes. You listened to me talk about it while we were dating. But now that we’re _not_, I think… I think I’m just glad it’s done with.”

He nods, but doesn’t look entirely convinced.

Mélie sends her a text message after school that says, _my offer to beat him up still stands btw_, and it makes Amicia laugh so hard but she doesn’t know what to say to her mum when she asks so she says something about a cat video instead.

(Telling her parents they broke up isn’t weird or hard or fraught. They just take it as news, check in with her every now and then afterwards, but mostly they seem happy to leave him in the past. Hugo is pleased; he didn’t like Lucien, he tells her in a stage whisper later that night.)

The only one to not immediately assume she’ll struggle is Lucas. Understandably. He just says, “No offense, but thank god. He was a jerk,” and they leave it at that.

\--

It’s not immediate that the repercussions of their breakup become apparent, nor does its wider ripple effect become felt for several weeks. Then, it seems as if the entire back half of the year devolves into all the various ways things can go wrong because two people are no longer on speaking terms.

And it goes like this:

There’s a week or two of come-down after where everyone steps gingerly around everyone else. Lucas doesn’t know if he’s allowed to talk to Cecile because she’s friends with Lucien and has clearly remained in his court. Arthur makes jokes about how he’s dating the ‘enemy’ now and is very careful not to say anything that involves Lucien even adjacently.

Then there’s the great big mushroom cloud: Cecile breaks up with Arthur, seemingly out of nowhere. It goes about as well as she should’ve expected. Arthur is upset. Even though it hadn’t been his idea to ask her out in the first place, he actually really _likes_ Cecile, so he’s miserable. They spend an awful lot of time cheering him up, reminding him that she’s a bitch and supportive stuff like that (even if they don’t believe it; not at _first_).

(And sure, that doesn’t seem like something that’s in any way related to Amicia breaking up with Lucien. Until it _is_.)

Because Cecile and Lucien start dating not long after Amicia’s birthday, which kind of sucks for a whole host of reasons, not least of which because Arthur is a Debby Downer.

They all unanimously decide to simply cut Cecile from all aspects of their lives. Lucas is finally caught up on being unhappy about this whole thing because that means he can’t nerd with her about stuff anymore.

The final domino comes right at the end of the year and it’s not even something any of them were meant to find out. It’s pure coincidence that sees Amicia loitering by the gym toilets (the coincidence being the ones by the art block are closed for repairs and the next closest is the gym so that’s where she goes and it just _happens_ that Cecile has gym at the same time). So she’s in a stall when Cecile walks in with someone else and she overhears a _delightful_ snippet of conversation.

“… can’t believe it took so long for them to break up,” the unknown second party is saying.

“Oh, Lucien was actually really into Amicia,” Cecile replies. “I don’t think her heart was in it.”

“Is she into Arthur?”

“No, they’re practically siblings, all four of them. Arthur was just a fun distraction while waiting for Lucien to get his stupid infatuation with de Rune out of his system.”

“That was quite the waiting game, Cici.”

Cecile laughs, bright and happy. “You’re telling me. It was tough. Glad I don’t have to spend time pretending I like any of them now though.”

“Wait,” says the other girl. “Are you telling me you _never_ liked them? You’ve been friends for years!”

“They call it a long con, Pala.”

“That’s insane. You could’ve…” Their conversation fades away as they leave the girls’ room.

Amicia sits on the toilet seat thinking about how everything she’d ever shared with Cecile was a complete lie. _All_ of it. There’s this horrible lurching in her chest and she knows, viscerally, what the twins had meant when they said everyone left, that some people find out you’re _different_ and so they walk away.

Learning Cecile was only _putting up with them_ because she had a thing for Lucien? That hurts worse than her breakup.

She sits there and cries until the end of school bell rings.

\--

Of course, she shares this fabulous insight with her friends. Arthur is the one who takes it hardest; he’d just been a… an entertaining passtime until Cecile could have what she really wanted, after all. It’s beyond personal for him.

The ultimate result of all this is that the four of them close ranks. Clearly, the only people they can trust are each other. No one else. So they don’t.

That final stretch out to the summer break is kind of the absolute worst, though. It just drags on and on, prolonging this weird period where she and Arthur have ‘post-breakup’ stamped across their foreheads for the entire student body to see, yet Cecile and Lucien both somehow escape this branding since they’re dating each other now. And, true to high school form, everyone apparently knows all the details.

To the point that, when Amicia drags Arthur down to the park one weekend before the end of term to smack tennis balls at each other and work out their frustrations, seeing other students from their grade there makes it all _worse_ in this weirdly specific way. And none of these kids has any sense of tact?

Amicia is scooping up a couple of the balls that had landed behind her up against the wire fence when a pair of her classmates – girls whose names she doesn’t know, but with vaguely familiar faces – stroll past, arm in arm and talking loudly. It’s a calculated volume, intended to be heard but not obnoxiously so, it’s what Lucas calls the ‘spreading gossip’ speak.

“I guess she was just waiting for an excuse,” says girl number one.

“They’ve always been close,” agrees number two.

“And now they don’t have to pretend they’re not into each other.”

Girl two clucks her tongue, “Can’t believe she led Lucien on like that, though. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“At least Cici will treat him right.”

Amicia slams her palm against the wire, rattling it loudly. The girls _clearly_ hear it; their voices drop to titters, one of them glances over quickly and snaps back to their conversation as if feeling guilty. Rightly she should. Bitch.

When she stalks back to the net and serves, it’s with somewhat more of a vicious shoulder-rotation than necessary and Arthur has to swing his hips to the side to avoid being smacked in the ribs.

“Hey. Violence!” he squeaks.

“Sorry.”

He lifts his chin at the girls. “They say something?”

She sighs. Answer enough. “Wish we could get to the actual proper tennis courts across town.”

Arthur slaps the ball back a little gentler. “Gotta have a car for that.”

Not just a car, she thinks, but someone to drive it. And that… that’s actually promising.

\--

Amicia hits her dad up the second she gets home.

“When can we go and get my learner’s permit?”

He looks up from his laptop with this impossibly stupid expression; the one he wears when he’s been eyeballs deep in his writing, so absorbed he forgets the rest of the world exists. It takes a moment or two for his eyes to clear and another couple before what she’s said sinks in.

“Oh. What? Are you old enough for that now?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Yes, dad. I’m sixteen now, thank you.”

Robert looks back down at his laptop, fiddles with something and then closes the lid over. “And what’s the sudden rush? I always thought the days after the birthday were the ones where I would be overwhelmed with requests.”

She rocks back onto her heels, folds her arms. “Well… Things have been weird with some of the kids at school since Lucien and I broke up,” she admits, “and Arthur and I don’t… we don’t like hearing some of the stuff they say when we’re at the park together.”

Her father’s eyes dart between hers, searching for the meaning hidden behind her deflection. And he’s no fool; he finds it. “Things like what?” His voice is serious.

Amicia hunches her shoulders up. “Nothing.”

“Amicia.”

“Ugh,” she huffs. “I don’t know where it started, but a lot of them think Arthur and I are dating now and we were being unfair on Lucien and Cecile and it’s… a mess.” Her shoulders drop. “High school drama, I guess. It’ll pass.”

He watches her carefully for a long, weighted minute, then says, “But you shouldn’t have to put up with it. Alright. We’ll go tomorrow, is that fine with you? Can you make time in your hectic schedule?”

“Yes, dad.”

Robert just laughs as she wanders off.

\--

She wonders if she sets a record for being the teen most motivated to earn her license. Admittedly, there are a bunch of hoops to jump through, boxes to check and tests to pass; but her learner’s license she acquires in surprisingly good time. And that motivation doesn’t waver for a second over the next seven or so months – the legal period of time she has to hold a learner’s permit before she can apply for a provisional one.

Amicia is fairly certain her father gets utterly sick of her bothering him about taking her out for practice.

It’ll be _so_ worth it though, in the end.

\--

Upon beginning la première, it becomes painfully clear to all of them that the universe is apparently _designed_ to cause them all as much trouble as possible. Amicia has maths with Mélie but _also_ with Lucien. They voluntarily sit in opposite corners of the classroom, as far from one another as possible, him in the front by the door for quick escapes, and them in the back by the windows; Mélie glares at the back of his head with such ferocity it’s a wonder he doesn’t go prematurely bald.

She has literature with Arthur and, naturally enough, Cecile and Ana. They have acquired a new posse of friends, three other girls who Amicia doesn’t know and has no interest in learning about; they sit with their heads together; whispering and giggling amongst themselves, shooting glances at her and Arthur just in case they _didn’t_ know they were the focus of the gossip.

Her art and history lessons are safe, thank god, she has Mélie in both and none of the rumour mill attendants. Sure, Naseem is still in art with them, and he looks put upon at all times, but he doesn’t look at Mélie the same way anymore, avoids looking at them altogether if he can help it. Amicia doesn’t wonder too hard why that is, not to start, she’s too caught up in how at least _someone_ is happy to ignore them.

She’s all alone in business accompanied by the same two harpies with whom she shares literature. Without Arthur for backup, they seem freer with their poorly concealed jibes. The sooner they get bored of this nonsense, the better.

Mélie and Arthur _both_ have to suffer through having Lucien in IT, along with some new friend he’s made over the summer. He’s big. Mélie points him out at lunch time, all broad shoulders and buzzed hair and mean, squinty eyes. He probably plays rugby. (And if Mélie isn’t careful, he’ll treat her head like a ball.)

Lucas has maths with Louis, too, which he complains about, but it’s mostly fine. Louis barely acknowledges him, doesn’t interfere with his learning, and makes the occasional stupid comment for Lucas to relay to them at lunch for laughing purposes. It’s perhaps the only good thing to come from their class assignments.

“Can you believe,” Arthur asks, slumping down against the wall one lunch time, “that we’re sixteen now, almost everyone, and still behaving like dumb twelvies?”

“In fairness, there’s only a four year difference,” Lucas points out.

“Unhelpful comment. Hasn’t it been long enough?”

“They need some new drama to focus on,” Mélie grumbles. “Can we manufacture something, you think?” She sits up, leans forward, elbows propped on her knees.

Arthur mirrors her movement somewhat, his attention fixed on a point somewhere over Lucas’ shoulder. He folds his legs together to better accommodate a thoughtful, plotting posture. “I bet we could…”

“You want to… _incite_ drama?” Amicia asks.

That’s the phrase that gets Lucas to look up from the novel he has draped across one knee. “Oh, no,” he breathes. “No, I don’t condone any course of action that leads to more drama.”

“Not drama about _us_,” Mélie says with an eye roll and a hand wave. “Just to give the gossip girls something else to think about.”

“I feel like this is an invitation for trouble, Mélie,” Amicia mutters.

“Relax,” Arthur laughs, leaning back on his palms again, the very definition of cavalier. “We’d have to have a decent plan first.”

“Yeah, princess,” Mélie adds, eyes twinkling in that dangerous way they get when she’s mid-scheme. “We’d have to have a _plan_.”

\--

“Like… are we talking a _Carrie_ style plan here, or…?”

“Where would we even get pigs’ blood from?”

“That’s not reassuring, Arthur.”

“I was thinking more… artificial clumsiness.”

“You want to cause someone to have a nasty accident?”

“Hum, no. I want to cause someone to bestow a nasty accident on someone else.”

“How needlessly complicated.”

\--

Staging an accident (presumably for Cecile) goes on the backburner while the twins concoct something suitably horrible. In the meantime, lessons march on as they always do, students say things they regret, host parties that seem like poor choices only _after_ the fact, and, as it can be reliably counted on to do, the weather cools down as Christmas approaches.

This makes it sound like nothing of note happens to any of them, which is only _mostly_ the case. It’s more like the four of them sitting outside a restaurant watching everyone else have a good time, but then when everyone leaves and it starts raining, they’re the only people who brought umbrellas.

“So are you going to the dance this Friday?” asks some girl in Amicia’s now-friendless form.

Cecile, and the brand new mill co-workers she’s found, shuffle their chairs to allow this one to join them. “Of course we are,” Cecile says as she might to an imbecile (or perhaps to Amicia, these days). “Won’t be a party without us.”

They all laugh, an overplayed track to accompany tired sit-com jokes.

“Should be an interesting evening,” says another mill worker.

“Why’s that?” This new girl is out of the loop, but Amicia can’t judge because so is she.

There’s the creak of a chair as someone leans closer, imparting a secret in their ‘spreading gossip’ voices. “Michelle hosted that party two weeks ago, right? Well her boyfriend was caught in the bathroom making out with her best friend. It was the highlight of the evening.”

“Oh! She’s going to the dance?”

“Yeah, but her now-ex-boyfriend is going with her best friend.”

Purveyors of misery, that’s what these girls should all put on their resumes. They care so much about the troubles happening in the lives of others that they don’t notice the road spikes in their way until they’ve rolled over it, tires punctured, and then suddenly _they’re_ the ones being laughed at, tittered about. And it’s only upsetting until someone else suffers and then they can go back to joining the peddling of drama.

It’s all very teen-drama kitsch, really, but despite being the sort of thing people proclaim doesn’t happen in real life, seems entirely inescapable.

“We should go to the dance,” Arthur says, perhaps naively, later.

“We should to do nothing of the sort,” Lucas replies.

“Okay,” Arthur amends, smiling, “_we_, but not Lucas, should go to the dance.”

“Don’t know about that, Arthur,” Mélie supplies. “The last party we went to wasn’t much fun and we _weren’t_ social pariahs at the time.”

Arthur slaps a palm against one knee. “I’m not going to let these assholes beat me.”

“And going to the party proves… what?” Mélie asks.

“That they don’t _own_ me,” he tells her. “They can say what they like, I know who I am, know my worth, and it has nothing to do with them.” His shoulders slump. “I just… I’m so tired of feeling _beaten_ by them. Sick of feeling like Cecile gets to define my life simply by not wanting to date me.”

“Sick of feeling like your life and worth are defined by the person you’re dating,” Amicia adds quietly, “and that you’re not worth _anything_ if you’re single.”

Arthur’s eyes light up. “Yeah. That.”

Mélie and Lucas glance first at one of them, then the other, then they exchange a look; something special held between them both for just a second. Then Mélie shrugs.

“Well, whatever,” she says. “But I’m not coming.”

\--

“Didn’t I say I didn’t want to be here?”

Mélie stands with hands tucked into her front pockets, cuffs creasing, baggy around her wrists where the sleeves are just slightly too long. She has a beanie jammed down around her ears, shoulders hunched up too. Dark jeans tucked into tall leather boots with furred, down-turned tops, looking very out of place when Amicia peers through the window at those inside and sees all the short skirts and torn stockings of the other guests.

Arthur matches her, in a hoodie and jeans and shoes, no beanie though, he’s braver given the weather but when they get inside he probably won’t need one anyway. They’re, all three of them, sort of more dressed down than the situation requires apparently; Amicia went with dark jeans and a hoodie as well. She’s a little worried about standing out too much, but then if Arthur’s whole thing for the evening is making a point then maybe this will help?

“You don’t have to come in,” Arthur tells her, voice flat. He’s tilted closer to the window, beside Amicia. “We won’t stay long.”

“It’s cold, jerk. You’ve brought me with; I’m coming in.”

He shrugs, turns to Amicia. “You ready?”

“No,” she whispers. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because we are still whole people when we’re single.”

“Right.”

“Well, I’ve been single this whole time,” Mélie grumbles. “So, still don’t know why you brought me.”

Amicia slips her fingers into the crook of Mélie’s elbow, pulls her closer. “Moral support.”

She continues to mumble things for a second – nonsense noises, meaningless – but allows herself to be drawn into Amicia’s side, follows easily, pliable, her cheeks reddened from the cold. “Sure, princess.”

Since this particular gathering is sanctioned by the school, it’s held on campus in the main gym hall. The bleachers have been pushed back against the walls to make room for long trestle tables with food and punch (neither of which Amicia trusts in the least) and the rest of the space has been modestly decorated with lights. No streamers. She heard from someone that at the last dance with streamers they’d been pulled down and kids had mixed craft glue into a watery mess, dunked balled up streamer paper into it and plastered the sides of buildings (and a few staff cars).

This is why they don’t have nice things.

“Now what?” Mélie asks once they’re inside. “How are you two idiots proving you exist?”

“Not sure,” Amicia admits. They both turn to Arthur.

He rolls his eyes at them and strides off through the crowd.

“Guess we won’t find out from him,” Amicia says softly.

Mélie quirks her eyebrow, the corners of her lips curling up in that _way_ she has. “And what’s your plan?”

“Uh, I didn’t have one? I feel like just being _seen_ is enough.”

“Alright.” Mélie doesn’t extricate herself, but she shifts her elbow a little so Amicia is properly linked to her and stuffs the hand deeper into her coat pocket, essentially locking them together. “You want me to keep you company or no?”

Amicia squeezes her arm. “Company is nice.”

Her smile ticks up again, into something warm and genuine. “Good.”

She lets Mélie direct them, perfectly happy to let her decide things; naturally that means they keep to the outskirts of the room, hanging by the snack table or loitering in the shadows of the corners. Everyone else present is either dancing or eating or hanging out in little bubbles chatting over the music blasting from the speakers. They catch glimpses of Arthur now and then, but whatever he’s up to is hard to make out through the press of bodies.

“What do you think his plan is?” Mélie asks, leaning close enough that Amicia can feel the warm of her breath against her ear. She shivers.

“Start a row with someone?” she offers. Amicia has to raise her voice a little to be heard over the music, so she leans further into Mélie’s side.

“I’m leaning more towards making out with someone,” Mélie suggests, still against the shell of her ear. “Maybe someone who’s in a well-established relationship.”

“Now _that_ would cause a scene.” She pauses before asking, “Is this your plan to start more drama?”

Mélie laughs and they’re so close that Amicia can feel the vibrations through her chest. “Hardly. The idea is _not_ to be connected to the drama we start. This would just be…”

“Messy.”

“No one ever accused either of us of having tact.”

“You don’t need it,” Amicia hums.

Mostly they people watch, edging around the outside of the gym, picking out folks they know and observing them. It’s no wonder the structure of high school society ebbs and flows with the turning of the tides at events like these. Should two people dance when they’re not dating, that causes a stir (twice, they see incidents that might very well escalate into physical altercations if not for the watchful presence of their panopticon wardens); once Mélie stops her to watch two girls have a conversation, heads bowed together and it seems perfectly normal to Amicia. Then Mélie gives her context.

“See that blonde girl? I have her in IT and she’s _very_ loud about how much she hates Tess,” Mélie explains. “Apparently being friendly with Tess is similar to being friends with us at the moment: social suicide.”

“They look pretty friendly to me.”

“Better hope no one finds out.”

They do catch sight of Arthur once more, he’s having a conversation with some boys they don’t know, laughing even. One of them claps him on the shoulder and they all part ways, swallowed by the crowd.

“Can’t believe you decided to show yourselves.”

Amicia is perched on the window ledge, legs kicking, it’s further away from the throng here, near the doors, and Mélie has her hip tilted against the wall beside her, arms crossed; both tired from wandering around and waiting for Arthur. They look up when addressed – and it’s clearly _them_ being spoken to, there’s no one else nearby – to find Pala, her long curls piled on her head, eyes outlined in a rich purple, a nasty smile tugging at her mouth.

“How dare we have corporeal forms,” Mélie sighs, “visible to the naked eye.”

Pala glances her way dismissively, focuses back on Amicia. “At least you’re over here, not trying to pretend you’re welcome.” She pops her hip, nods her head back towards the crowd, no doubt indicating Arthur.

Mélie shifts her weight, moving away from the wall. It’s probably best she doesn’t get a chance to speak. “We are welcome,” Amicia says, “This is our school, our school dance. There’s nothing you can do to stop us from being here.”

Pala’s nose wrinkles. “Quaint.”

“Don’t see what it is to _you_, anyway,” Mélie adds in a low drawl. “Neither Amicia nor Arthur broke up with _you_.”

If Pala had fur, it’d be bristling. “Cecile is my best friend,” she says, tart. “And you caused her a lot of trouble.”

Mélie has her mouth open in this big, frowney way she has right before she says something stupid. So Amicia interrupts, “Yes? Well, Cici was _my_ best friend once too, and now look.” She reaches out and takes Mélie’s hand to draw her away. “You’d best remember that.”

Her hand tightens perhaps too hard around Mélie’s fingers, but she gets no complaints. They stop by the food table where, hopefully, people will be too busy stuffing party pies into their mouths to have anything nasty to say. Mélie doesn’t let her go, squeezes back, pulls her back in so she can talk directly into Amicia’s ear again.

“Amicia de Rune,” she says in this low tone that makes something improbable clench between her ribs, “That was almost _bitchy_ of you. I’m impressed.”

She feels herself flush but isn’t sure why, leans out, but then she can see the look in Mélie’s eyes and it’s not helpful. “Really?”

“Well…” She tips away but her smile betrays her. “Not so pleased that you called Cici your best friend when I’m like…” Mélie lifts her free hand to her chin and makes a sweeping gesture to her toes, “I was right there. But yeah.” She bumps their shoulders together. “Proud of you. I think you made your point.”

Arthur rejoins them not long after that, he eyes some of the trays and bowls on the table but doesn’t touch them. “Ready to go?” he asks.

“God,” Mélie huffs, “am I ever. Kinda hungry though.”

“Don’t eat or drink anything,” he says, way too quickly to be anything other than suspicious.

“We can stop and get something on the way home,” Amicia decides.

“We’re staying at your place?” Mélie seems genuinely surprised.

“Of course.”

She’s surprised by that too.

\--

The next Monday they learn that _someone_, _somehow_ got some_thing_ truly inventive into both the punch and the dipping sauce for the party pies and rolls. Whatever it was had some sort of hallucinogenic properties, but also functioned perfectly well as a laxative. Needless to say, the dance got _very_ exciting after they left.

Medical professionals were called, some parents grounded children for being _high_, and blood tests were run. In the end, it’s concluded that whatever it was featured some mixture of over the counter medication and a touch of alcohol. It redefines their understanding of ‘spiking the punch’.

“Arthur,” Amicia hisses at morning break when she finds him. “Was that _you_?”

He grins. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Lucas’ eyes go wide. “Did you poison half our grade?” His voice is caught in some liminal space between a shriek and dog whistle, which is just as well otherwise the whole courtyard would be blaming Arthur for this.

“Not personally, but I may have had a hand in it.”

“Is that what you were talking to those boys about?” Mélie asks.

“Look,” he breathes, “it was hard enough to pull off without someone figuring out who to blame, okay? The less you guys know, the better.”

Mélie scoffs. “Right.”

“No,” he insists, “_Really_. Plausible deniability and all that.”

“Where did it even _come_ from?” Amicia asks what she considers to be the important question.

“The medication was personal,” he says, “Not mine, a prescription from Louis’ house belonging to his mother.”

“You _stole_ her medication?” And that’s Lucas hitting the dog whistle. “Are you _insane_?”

Arthur shrugs. “I wasn’t caught. Louis’ mum practically eats pills as food, she won’t notice.”

“And the alcohol?”

A smile is all they get in answer to that one. And he’s probably right about them not wanting to know. Teachers are on high alert all week after, poking their noses into things, doing locker inspections and bag checks and bathroom monitoring, the works.

Someone _does_ eventually link Louis to the pills, which goes about as well as expected. (He gets grounded, but not expelled because his parents are loaded. Typical.)

The upshot is: people stop remembering to hate the four of them pretty quickly.

\--

Speculation on all other topics falls away in the aftermath of the dance; the only people really clinging to hating Amicia and Arthur are the ones who are personally affected. And even then, from the way Louis and Lucien – in particular – behave, it’s just Cecile and her minions desperately trying to keep the hatred burning.

Amicia hears about one specific turning point from Arthur: “He wasn’t even… like… a jerk about it?” he’s saying to Lucas when she and Mélie arrive from art.

“Who wasn’t a jerk about what?” Mélie asks, flopping down beside him.

“Lucien.”

Amicia’s shoulders instantly stiffen. “What did he do?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, nothing. He just… spoke to me today in the hall. Asked if you’d broken up with him for me. I told him you hadn’t, and he asked if _I_ knew if there was something he could’ve done…? I think he really liked you, Amicia.”

She exhales. “Yes. He might have, but he had a strangely restricted way of showing it.”

“And he didn’t like you spending time with us,” Lucas chimes in. “I’m glad you’re not like Cici.”

“I think we’re _all_ glad of that,” Mélie says, voice flat.

Amicia watches her carefully, but her face is as blank as her tone. “Were you really worried I’d pick him over you guys?”

Mélie swaps a glance with Lucas and she says, “Not as much as I used to but, yeah, a little,” while he nods.

She smiles, a little sadly. “No guy is more important than my friends. And if he wants to be, he can take a walk.”

“Yeah.” Arthur leans forward so he can slap his sister’s knee. “Same for me.”

“And now we have proof of it,” Lucas says.

“Only from us.” Arthur rolls his eyes up, a smile curving his mouth. “Maybe it’ll be _you_ two who abandon us when you meet someone special.”

Mélie punches him, hard, in the arm.

\--

“Do you really worry that I’m such a bad friend?” Amicia asks Mélie in history later.

“What?”

She hunches her shoulders forward. “Mélie, we’ve known each other for so long. Do you really think I might still leave?”

Mélie keeps her attention fixed to her book, writing down some of the points off the board in her slow, precise hand. Amicia waits, but impatience gets the better of her and she reaches out to place her fingers around Mélie’s. There’s another beat of silence.

Then she sucks in a deep breath. “Look, it’s a hard fear to shake, yeah? No one’s ever stuck around as long as you and Lucas. Sometimes I forget to worry about it, but then something happens and it’s like the other shoe is about to drop.”

“You’ve never told me why you and Arthur are so wary of people leaving.”

A pause. “Did we not tell you our mother left?”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“We were five… maybe six,” Mélie says, the hand under Amicia’s shakes just a fraction. “She got sick of dad hitting her probably. I barely remember her; just things like her hair, for some reason. She was blonde. But you know… she left. One day she just… wasn’t there. And it was Arthur and I getting hit after that. Our own mother left us with him.”

Amicia pulls the pen from Mélie’s hand and winds their fingers together. She doesn’t know what to say, though.

“She probably couldn’t stand being reminded of him,” Mélie whispers. “That’s what Arthur says; we look like him and she hated it.”

She still isn’t sure what she can say to this, there’s nothing that really _fits_. Instead what happens is she mumbles, “When we graduate, we should all get a place together. Somewhere safe.”

And Mélie’s eyes jerk around, stare at her with this funny intense sparkle; three parts doubt and four parts hope. “What?”

Amicia squeezes her hand and then lets go, returns to her notes. “Your living situation is kind of awful, Mélie,” she whispers. “We should fix that.” When she dares to look up and add, “I still wish you could stay with us all the time, it was great having you for Christmas,” the doubt has faded. Now the glitter is four parts hope and five parts something soft and warm that Amicia can’t name but makes something light bloom in her chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

\--

Mélie and Arthur spend the Christmas break with Amicia again. Ostensibly because the de Runes just have a far more festive vibe about them, it’s warmer and they get to celebrate their birthday separately. But Amicia can see in the set of Mélie’s shoulders, the glaze over her eyes; the bags under Arthur’s eyes, that there’s more to it.

Neither of them say it, not outright, but there will be no going through furniture this year. No new scars. No new nightmares.

In the dark of her bedroom, Mélie presses her fingers to the line down her cheek; healed now, tidy and barely noticeable (at least, Amicia thinks so). Her eyes are sad, downcast, shoulders slumped.

Amicia sits beside her, thighs bumping together. “You okay?”

“No.”

Then nothing. Silence.

She twists, pulling her knee up onto the bed so she can face Mélie properly. Slowly, she lifts a hand to where Mélie is still touching her scar, winds their fingers together and shifts it away, down. Amicia brushes the tips of her fingers over the scar, watches Mélie’s breath hitch just faintly, her eyes sliding closed.

“I never,” Mélie whispers, voice cracking down the middle. “Never really thought of myself as pretty, you know?”

Amicia doesn’t, but she says nothing.

“This, though…” She lifts her free hand to bump against Amicia’s lingering fingers. “It’s _ugly_.”

She brushes her thumb across Mélie’s cheek. “Hardly.”

There’s a look she gets for that, something flat and disbelieving, that she chooses to ignore. “It is. Can’t say I ever felt _vain_ before but this… I hate it.”

Amicia shifts her hand back so her palm rests over Mélie’s cheek. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you hate it?”

Mélie blinks at her like she’s stupid. “Because my _dad_ did this to me. He pushed me through _glass_. My own father. Because it was almost our birthday, _Christmas_. Because people stare at it and they either think I’m a clumsy shit, or they _know_ someone did this to me. Because it gets _pity_.”

“Sure, but you know what else?”

She grunts.

Amicia pushes some hair behind Mélie’s ear, tilts her chin forward so she can lean on her shoulder. “We spent two weeks hanging out, eating junk, having midday naps and watching movies. It was this amazing extended girls’ night, and you got to have Christmas with us. The reasons it happened suck, sure, but the other stuff? That was pretty cool.”

Mélie leans away a bit, just a subtle shift so she can fix Amicia with a weird little smile. “And have you got any wisdom to make me feel better about being disfigured, too?”

She hums. “Well… like I said before: chicks dig scars, I’ve been told. So there’s that. Also, a lot of people are shallow assholes; but this is like your own personal life hack for figuring out who your real friends are. For instance: me? Best friend, scar means nothing, I still think you’re the most amazing.”

Mélie laughs. “Naseem,” she begins, “asked me out, but now he won’t even look at me. Clearly the scar is a big ‘no’ for him.”

“See? And he doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. The idiot.”

They fall silent, long enough that Amicia feels her eyes droop so she pulls away and flops belly-first onto the mattress, kicking her feet until they’re under her blanket. It takes a while before Mélie joins her, pulls the cover up and over them properly when she does.

And then she asks, “Do you really think someone would date me? Even with this?”

“Of course. You’re fantastic.”

She’s not sure her voice carries the exact level of conviction she wants, considering she’s tired and speaking directly into a pillow, but it’s the thought, right?

And Mélie says, “Thanks, princess. Don’t really think I’d care to date right now, but thanks.”

Amicia lifts an arm blindly and slings it out, hoping she’s found Mélie’s shoulders or something. “Any time.”

\--

“Can I talk about something?”

Amicia looks up from the book she’s reading, sitting in her bedroom with her feet tucked beneath her and wrapped snugly in a blanket. Mélie stands in the doorway, fingers picking at the edges of her thumbnail. She lowers her book, shifts the blanket and waves her over. It’s a bit of a tight squish onto the seat, but after a few seconds of prolonged hesitation, Mélie wriggles in beside her.

“Of course,” Amicia says. “Anything.”

She says nothing for a while and then asks, “What are you reading?”

Amicia closes it over so she can see the cover, it’s their novel for literature. But what she says is, “How to initiate a conversation with a friend and then avoid talking about it.”

“Very funny.”

She laughs, places the book onto the table and leans into Mélie’s side. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

“I just… we’ve sort of already talked about it. And I don’t…” She pauses before asking, “How come… how come when I told you I’m gay you didn’t stop being… tactile?”

Amicia blinks, brows pinching. “Why would I?” Then her eyes widen. “God. Do you want me to?”

“No!” Mélie answers quickly, hitting a surprisingly high pitch. “No,” she amends, measured. “It’s just… aren’t you like… worried?”

“About what?”

She can practically _sense_ the eye roll. “Like… that whole predatory lesbian thing?”

It’s probably the exact wrong thing to do, but she starts laughing. “What? Mélie, _no_.” She sits up, twists at the waist so she can place her hands on either side of Mélie’s face and force her to hold eye contact. “Listen to me closely: _you_ are my best friend and there’s nothing _predatory_ about you.”

Something flickers in Mélie’s eyes, a spark of something that she can’t name; it gives her this _feeling_ though… Just something niggling in the back of her mind, that something is going unsaid. This isn’t all Mélie wanted to say, but whatever else there is, she doesn’t bring it up.

She smiles instead, thin at first, but brighter after a beat. And that light feeds the warm blossoms growing in Amicia’s chest.

“So…” Mélie begins, a clear redirect. “Is that book any good or is this term gonna suck?”

\--

When they arrive back at school, the wider population has completely forgotten about pretty much any drama or gossip that isn’t whatever happened over the break. Arthur though… he seems inclined to give them something to talk about.

Now that the only people holding onto any kind of animosity for him and Amicia are Cecile and her lackeys (and maybe Ana), he begins the process of seducing the entirety of their grade. It goes about as well as it sounds.

“Tell me.”

The voice startles the living heck out of Amicia one morning. So much so she slams her locker door shut with a loud snap that echoes down the hall. When she turns, instead of finding Mélie (with whom she has history first thing this morning), there is a girl she doesn’t know. Pretty in a chiaroscuro way, her skin pale as snow and her curly hair the exact opposite, big eyes and a button nose; she’s very cute. Amicia recognises the face but can’t find a name to put with it; maybe Lyra or Layla or something.

“What?”

Maybe-Lyra leans into her space, arms wrapped around her books. “You’re friends with Arthur Dubois, right?”

“Um. Yes?”

“And Cecile broke up with him, right? He’s not some kind of asshole?”

“No? No! He’s great, one of my best friends. Um… why?”

Maybe-Lyra doesn’t answer, just shoots her this dimpled smile and spins, heading off to wherever. That whole thing was just… bizarre.

She feels Mélie appear at her shoulder two seconds later. “Well… she’s _very_ cute. Branching out, princess?”

She shakes her head. “Not me. She asked about Arthur.”

Mélie hums. “Guess he’s gotta get past Cici some time.”

“Oh. _Oh_!” It clicks with her Monday-morning brain then that Maybe-Lyra was probably just looking for some reassurance that rumour is stupid and wrong before she agrees to go out with Arthur.

“You need to go to bed earlier,” Mélie tells her, bumping their shoulders together. “Care to take a wager how long she lasts?”

“Not really,” Amicia replies, following her to class. “I’d like to hope Arthur has more success this time.”

\--

(Her name is, in fact, _Mina_; and she goes on roughly four dates with Arthur over the span of a week and a half period. Then they’re over. He dates approximately one girl every three weeks for the rest of the year, contributing mightily to Lucas’ whole ‘no more than a month’ dating statistic.

Mélie is worried. “This can’t be good for him,” she confides to Amicia after school one rainy afternoon. “He’s swung from one end of the dating spectrum to the other.”

“Cecile did a real number on him,” Amicia sighs.

“Yeah, but… now he’s going from being the one who got screwed over to a world-class heartbreaker.”

“Maybe…” she trails off as Lucas steps down from the building on the other side of the lot and waves to them. He points to the admin building and they lift their hands to acknowledge his delay. “Maybe he thinks it’s better to be the one doing the heart breaking than having his heart broken.”

Mélie eyes her. “Maybe.” Her voice is low, a dubious concession. “Feels like it’ll hurt him in the long run, that’s all.”

Amicia looks over at her, the set of her jaw, the slant of her nose and wonders at her tone. Wonders why having multiple short relationships and being in control is something that she thinks will hurt him.)

\--

Girlfriend-of-the-month for April is Miriam. She straightens her hair every morning and owns an impressive number of patterned sweaters that never quite clash as much as they should with her chunky tortoiseshell glasses. Amicia learns this because Miriam is in history with her and Mélie and seems to believe she will somehow be different to the girls who came before her.

(Mélie refers to all such girls as Gotems. Presumably, this is in part because of the acronym made by the phrase ‘girlfriend-of-the-month’ and in part because she finds it all to be a great big joke that so many girls think they can keep Arthur from breaking up with them after their allotted time.)

“Do they have a club?” Mélie asks at lunch. “A ‘we’re going to date Arthur’ club?”

Arthur grins. “If they do, you reckon they have a members list?”

“You don’t need enabling,” she tells him.

Miriam sits with them sometimes, too, and it happens without announcement or schedule; she will simply decide – spur of the moment – that today is the day she spends her lunch time in their company. It’s kind of nice, really. Cecile never did that.

But it can also be somewhat irritating.

For instance: “Grandpa won’t let me stay over for your birthday this year, Amicia,” Lucas is saying. “It’s the last day of the break.”

“We can do something on Saturday instead,” she offers. “Doesn’t have to be _on_ my birthday.”

And _that’s_ when Miriam arrives. “Your birthday is over the Easter break?” she asks, folding herself neatly beside Arthur.

Not a single one of them speaks. A pin could drop in the parking lot half way across campus and they’d all hear it.

“Um…” None of her friends offers her an out, the cowards. “Yes?”

“How exciting! Do you have big plans?”

She shrugs. “Same as every year. Just the four of us and ice cream.”

Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. “We should do something more fun than that. Oh! Maybe bowling!”

And that’s how Miriam invites herself to Amicia’s birthday.

“You’re all traitors,” she hisses after classes that day.

“What did you want me to do?” Lucas asks, plaintive.

“Anything that stopped her from deciding to crash my birthday.”

“What? You think I should break up with her for wanting to hang out?” Arthur queries, hitching his bag up on his shoulder.

Mélie, slipping sunglasses over her nose, reminds him, “You’ve broken up with girls for less.”

“Well… yeah, but…”

“It’s fine,” Amicia sighs. “You guys want to go bowling?”

“Not really,” Lucas admits.

\--

They go bowling for her birthday.

It’s awkward with five people (something Miriam doesn’t seem to care about; maths is not her strong suit, evidently). Lucas and Mélie take turns swapping in and out for games because Miriam wants to play every round with Arthur, who spends every second Miriam isn’t looking at him shooting apologetic glances at Amicia.

Miriam is bad and complains about it. Lucas tells her it’s all physics and proceeds to land two strikes in a row (not that he can continue to replicate it). She calls him a cheater.

Amicia… doesn’t like her. But with _passion_. The kind that has her exchanging dramatic eyerolls with Mélie until they can’t quite hide their laughter.

“What’s the joke?” Miriam asks, hands on her hips.

They just laugh harder until Amicia has to either tip sideways into Mélie or forward off the plastic seat. She does the former.

“Seriously!” Miriam demands.

“It’s nothing,” Mélie manages. “Just thinking about…”

“Physics,” Amicia concludes. “Equal and opposite reactions and all that.”

Lucas looks at them, then over at Miriam, and it’s like watching a series of lights flick on one after the other as a smile blooms across his face. Then he’s laughing too, more restrained than they are, but at least he’s not taking too much offence from the nonsense Miriam keeps spouting.

Her birthday isn’t _great_, but it’s not a total loss either. Lucas provides an excuse to cut the evening short and Amicia’s dad comes to get them. They stop for pizza and Arthur buys her an apology-birthday-thickshake.

It’s redeemed right at the death.

And Arthur breaks up with Miriam the next morning.

\--

Laurentius goes across town one weekend near the end of the year and the four of them go with him. He’s there for gardening supplies, he says, but they head down to the rec centre; Lucas to see some display they’ve put on to do with botany, Arthur and Amicia to use the proper tennis courts, and Mélie just to get out of the house.

There’s nothing particularly exciting about this trip, specifically; it’s noteworthy only because they so rarely go into the heart of town.

“Real courts, Amicia,” Arthur says, dropping to his knees to smooth at the acrylic. “Look, it’s taken _care_ of. No pitting, no peeling.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and she can sense the eye roll Mélie delivers him too from behind where she’s sprawled out on the benches with her phone.

“I’ll kick your butt on a real court,” she tells him.

And he bounds back to his feet. “Like to see you try.”

They spend about an hour there; other people come and go on the other courts around them. Playing in the centre has the benefit of their balls not getting lost in traffic or disappearing into thick shrubs, too. Amicia doesn’t keep track of points when they’re just mucking around like this, but when she admits as much, it’s all Arthur needs to declare himself the winner.

“If you’re not keeping points, that makes me victor.”

“Don’t see how you figure that out.”

“It’s just facts, Amicia.”

As they’re getting ready to leave (prompted by Mélie’s heckling) a couple of folks in like… _proper_ tennis gear show up. Amicia and Arthur have stowed their rackets and balls back in their satchels and are standing beside Mélie, but she’s now engrossed in watching them.

Arthur drops his forearm onto her shoulder. “I’m a little insulted that you stared at your phone the whole time we played, but _them_ you’ll watch.”

On his other side, Amicia ribs him. “Are you looking at them?”

He’s not, too busy trying to wake Mélie from her reverie. “Huh?”

“Watch.”

So he glances around, still leaning on Mélie, but attention shifted. The couple are probably around their age, maybe a bit older, and if not professional tennis players, at least they seem to be motivated by the possibility of becoming such. The guy is tall, he has maybe a few inches on Arthur, and lean; his hair is a deep black, swept tidily across his head but already slicked with sweat and he’s got that nice sharp jawline Amicia has decided she quite appreciates. His companion is equally attractive, blonde and tall and lean, square-jawed and in possession of a truly impressive pair of bare shoulders. There’s a strip of skin visible between her tank and tiny skirt every time she lifts an arm to return the ball and Amicia notices it _every_ time.

“Oh,” Arthur breathes. His gaze slowly – oh-so _very_ slowly – returns to his sister. “Oh, Mélie.”

He gives her a shake and she finally snaps out of it. She blinks owlishly, realises her brother is draped over her shoulders and that she’s been caught staring; her entire face lights up to match her hair.

“Fuck off,” she says, shrugging away from him, storming towards the exit.

Arthur trails after in a cloud of laughter and sing-song teasing.

She will probably never hear the end of it.

\--

“Mélie says she’s never coming to the rec centre with us again.”

“I don’t blame her.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Amicia says, narrowing her eyes at him. “That if you keep _teasing_ her about this stuff, she’ll never talk to you again and be well within her rights.”

“I’m wounded.”

“Leave her alone.”

\--

“Lucas!”

Hugo bounces off his chair at the kitchen table and races over, throwing his arms around Lucas’ middle.

“Hey, Hugo.”

“Amicia says it’s your birthday,” he blurts, pulling away so he can jump up and down. “Did you get good presents?”

“Yes. Grandpa got me some books.”

Hugo stops his bouncing. “Yech, books. That’s terrible presents.”

“We’re going to the Egyptian exhibit at the museum, too,” Amicia tells him.

“Oh! Egypt! They had mummies! We’re learning about it in class!” He spots Mélie and Arthur then, too, and pulls away from Lucas to launch himself at them. Mélie seems surprised by his full-body hug, but Arthur just laughs. “Can I come to see the mummies?”

“No, Hugo,” Beatrice calls from the kitchen.

“It’s okay, Mrs de Rune,” Lucas replies. “He can come if he likes.”

She emerges with a cup of tea and frowns at him. “Are you sure? It’s your birthday.”

“Really,” Lucas tells her, laughing as Hugo bounces around to take his hand. “I don’t mind.”

Her brows narrow further, trying to discern if Lucas means that. She must decide he does because she sighs. “Alright. Be careful.”

“We will,” Amicia assures her over Hugo’s excited jabbering.

Laurentius is acting as their chauffer again (he says he needs fertiliser this time), letting Amicia drive to get her practice in, but with Hugo also in the car it’s… well, she’s driving illegally, _technically_, what with six passengers. So they squish Hugo in between Mélie and Arthur and hope he’s not noticed.

“Call me when you’re done,” Laurentius tells them upon arrival, taking the driver’s seat while they all pile out. His bony hands shake on the wheel. “I assume you’ll take longer than my fertiliser run, so I’ll find somewhere to have a cuppa.”

“Alright, grandpa. Drive safe. Make sure someone helps carry the fertiliser.”

Hugo doesn’t wait for them, just bounds off in a funny little frog-hop towards the nearest building. “Wait!” Amicia calls after him, and he skids to a stop, bouncing in place. “Just don’t run off, please? We don’t wanna lose you.”

“You won’t lose me!” And he scurries over, slipping his fingers into her hand. “I’ll be careful.”

Lucas leads them inside and Hugo immediately starts tugging her away, towards the glass fronted boxes. She holds him back for just long enough to allow Lucas the chance to grab one of the pamphlets about the exhibit and the layout of each of the displays since he likes to plan his routes through these things.

“Okay,” he muses while Hugo pulls on her arm steadily. “Okay.”

“Where are we starting today, my dude,” Arthur asks in a slow drawl.

He hums, musing on it as he flips through the displays. “Over here, I think.” And he turns to stride off in the direction he’s chosen; Hugo hops after him, dragging Amicia along with him. “We’ll start with the stuff that probably interests Hugo least so we can do the mummies at the end.”

“Mummies!” he exclaims, swapping Amicia’s hand for Lucas’. “What else is there?”

And so… okay, _maybe_ Lucas’ birthday turns into something a little more about Hugo than it perhaps should’ve; but he doesn’t mind. Lucas takes it as an opportunity to do one of the things he loves most: talk about things he has passion for, with assistance from Mélie who – as always – pulls weird and wonderful history facts from her ass despite never seeming to pay attention in class.

“You know a lot of these sculptures were actually painted,” she tells them softly, staring up at some carving that has clearly been removed from a place that it shouldn’t have been removed from. “Like in Greece, they painted things brightly, but it gets worn down by time and now it’s hard for us to know what it looked like.”

Hugo leans forward until he’s practically got his nose to the glass and Amicia has to drop a hand over his shoulder to hold him back. “They were pretty colours?”

“Yeah. I’m sure some of the stuff in the mummy room will show it better.”

He spins, grabs one of Mélie’s hands and one of Lucas’. “Mummy room! Let’s go!”

And Lucas, so easily enamoured by Hugo, just laughs and lets him take the lead. “What do you know about mummies, Hugo?” he asks.

“Everyone has one. They’re the best and we have a day just to tell them how much we love them.”

Arthur and Mélie laugh – the former out loud and the latter with a hand clapped over her mouth. “Not quite,” Lucas corrects. “You’re thinking about your mum; these ones are different.”

He tilts his head to one side. “Why are they called mummies then?”

“Because of how they’re buried.” Lucas stops him in front of one of the big posters. “See the wraps?”

“Yes! Like toilet paper!”

“Sure. When you get wrapped in rags like that, and all the other stuff too, they call it mummification.”

“Can I be mumicated?”

Arthur laughs harder. “God,” he wheezes, ignoring the security guard shooting him death glares. “Please do.”

“Not until you die,” Lucas says.

“I mean…” Mélie begins, “_technically_ you can get mummified before you die? But it wouldn’t be much fun.”

“Not until you die,” Lucas repeats.

Hugo sets his features firmly, holds one of Lucas’ hands in both of his and says, “When I die, I will be mumicated.”

“Alright then. Make sure you put that in writing.”

“Okay!”

They make it through the rest of the exhibit without Hugo putting his hands on any of the glass cases and without Arthur attracting too much attention. They stop at the gift shop on the way out and, despite Mélie grumbling about how overpriced everything is, they pool their money to buy Lucas a book on the Egyptian dynasties for his birthday. And _also_ a model sarcophagus for Hugo who insists he won’t play with it in the back yard and get it all dirty and broken.

(True to his word, he puts it on a high shelf and treats it with the utmost respect. Maybe because he genuinely meant what he said, and maybe because Arthur told him that – like the canopic jars they saw – this one contains all the evil magic of someone’s organs.)

“Thank you for taking me to your birthday,” Hugo says as they pile into Laurentius’ car, ready for lunch. “And thank you for the present!”

Lucas smiles at him, pulls Hugo into his side. “Thank _you_ for being so polite and well behaved in the museum.”

Hugo beams back. “Can we get fish and chips for lunch?”

“It’s up to Lucas,” Amicia tells him from the driver’s seat. “Since it’s his birthday.”

“Please?” Hugo begs, bouncing in Lucas’ lap. “Please?”

“Let’s have fish and chips for lunch.”

“And ice cream!” Hugo adds.

“And ice cream,” Lucas agrees.

\--

Amicia has met Seamus Dubois perhaps _once_ in the however many years she’s known his children. She knows his face, anyway; it’s pitted and creased and bluff, a broad face with a scruffy orange beard that looks as if he hasn’t so much grown it on purpose as forgotten to shave it off several weeks ago. The hair on his head is thinning at the front, cut short originally but, like his beard, hasn’t been trimmed in a while so it hangs a little lank to one side. There are permanent lines around his eyes, a crease between his brow where they’re always furrowed and his little stormy eyes sit deep in their sockets, shaded by an almost constant frown. His face with its sneering tilt is the opposite of what Amicia thinks about when she sees Mélie or Arthur; their lips curl up with cheeky, crooked smiles but his seems to only know how to snarl or leer.

She’s not particularly _surprised_ the twins don’t like to introduce him to people and she understands what Mélie had meant when she suggested her mother saw too much of him in her children. It’s not fair that two of her closest friends have a thug for a father.

“Mister Dubois,” she says when she sees him.

He grunts.

“Is Mélie home?”

Seamus turns his squinty eyes away from the neighbour parking his car and onto her. “What do you want her for?”

Not wanting to look away, Amicia hooks her thumb over a shoulder at the car idling on the curb. Robert is sitting in the front passenger seat, arm lying along the window as he watches their interaction carefully. “We were going to catch a movie today,” she explains. “Said she’d be waiting for me.”

He sniffs mightily, a snort to do a pig proud, and leans a little closer, one arm tipping across the top of his fence. “And you’re that prissy little girlfriend of hers, right?” Seamus grunts again. “She shouldn’t be hanging around the likes of you.”

Amicia bristles. “She can hang around anyone she likes.” Nearly she gives him a piece of her mind: better her than this lout of a father, better than miscreant rabble. But she thinks better of it when the door slams behind him.

Mélie comes storming down the path and shoulder-checks her father on the way past. “Keep your filthy mouth shut,” she grumbles.

His shoulders snap backwards. “What you say, girl?”

“I said,” Mélie says, a little louder, “keep your mouth shut.”

Amicia hears the car door swing open and click as Robert steps out to join them. She watches Seamus’ eyes flick up to look at him. Something in them shimmers, an evaluation, she’d say; a gauge, could he pick a fight with Robert? _Should_ he? Seamus’ posture remains stiff but his nose wrinkles, it’s crooked in a couple of places, a record of fights he’s picked (and lost) in the past.

Smartly, he doesn’t say anything more. But the look he gives Mélie makes Amicia tremble. She reaches out and takes Mélie’s hand, pulls her away. Neither of them breaks eye contact until they can feel Robert behind them, then they pile into the car quick smart.

“Where’s Arthur?” Robert asks as Amicia pulls the car out with shaking hands.

“With Lucas,” Mélie says softly, eyes turned out the window to watch her father. “They’re playing video games.”

“Might want to let him know to spend the night with Lucas then,” Robert says. “Not sure what your old man’s so worked up about, but he might need some time to cool down.”

“Yeah. He’s always like this whenever I hang out with Amicia and Lucas.”

“Why?”

Amicia catches Mélie’s shrug in the rear-view mirror, she’s still staring out the window. “Doesn’t like them. He thinks you’re a bad influence.”

Robert snorts. “You can spend the night with us, Mélie.”

“Thanks.”

She doesn’t argue, doesn’t wonder about being an imposition or inconvenience, doesn’t try to assure them she’d be fine to go home, doesn’t even say she’ll walk instead of having them drop her off. Amicia smiles.

\--

And when Mélie flops down onto her bed later and declares, “That was rubbish. What a waste of two hours of my life,” Amicia’s still smiling. It’s nice that Mélie has _finally_ started to accept she’s not some temporary aspect of Amicia’s life.

“You picked it.” She drops down slowly beside her, toeing her shoes off onto the floor.

“Yeah, well… You _let_ me.”

“It was your turn to choose!”

She can sense the eye roll before it happens. “You’re supposed to be my friend, princess. How come when I make a bad choice you don’t warn me about it?”

“I’m saving my warnings for really big mistakes.”

“What’s bigger than two hours!”

“Three hours?”

Mélie rolls part way onto her side to face Amicia and slugs her in the arm. “You’re the worst.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Mélie huffs, but she’s smiling. Answer enough.

They’re quiet for a bit after that, until Mélie says, “So, do you wanna watch more of the boldly beautiful or something else?”

“You just said you’d wasted two hours already today,” Amicia replies. Mélie laughs, but before she can do more than open her mouth, Amicia asks, “Actually… can I ask you a question?”

There must be something in her tone, or maybe her face, because Mélie uses her elbow to prop herself up onto her side and her brows pinch together just the tiniest amount when she looks down at her. “I’m not gonna like this question, am I?”

Amicia sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Well, I don’t know. What if I ask it but you don’t have to answer?”

“Isn’t that sort of an answer itself?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

Mélie sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and chews it briefly, eyebrows creasing a smidge more. Amicia isn’t sure why she focuses on either of those things. But then, “Alright. Ask. But… yeah.”

“If you don’t want to answer that’s fine.”

“Good. Okay.”

Amicia takes another deep breath and blurts, “What made you realise you’re gay?”

And Mélie… blinks. Just blinks. For a solid four or five seconds, though it feels _much_ longer.

“I…” She falters. “You know how you said Lucien is cute, right?”

“You don’t think so, yeah.”

“No. Not that…” Mélie hums for a moment. “I mean, you’re right. He _is_ cute, objectively.” She lifts a hand and waves it at her face. “He has a nice jaw, I guess. It’s just… I don’t know. I guess I don’t _care_. But…” Her voice cuts off sharply and her face goes red.

She doesn’t continue, but Amicia doesn’t prompt her, isn’t sure that’s a good idea. Instead, her brain fills in the gaps of their conversation with some truly incredibly assumptive acrobatics. And then she’s saying, “Oh! Is there a _girl_ you like? Someone who is objectively cute and you _do_ care?” without really meaning to.

Mélie’s face fills in three shades darker and she makes a strangled sound. She drops over onto her back again and nods her head almost imperceptibly.

“Sorry,” Amicia says quickly. “I didn’t mean to just… sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mélie mumbles, voice a little raspy. “I just…” She heaves a great lungful and exhales. “Girls are really pretty, you know? And sometimes… sometimes I forget how to speak around them. Guys… I guess I don’t get stuck staring at guys and forget how to function. You say a guy has a nice feature and sure, maybe he does, means nothing to me. That same thing on a girl though?” She huffs.

Amicia is quiet. What should she say to that? Lucien has a nice face, but she can’t recall him ever preventing her from speaking. Or maybe… Was that why she was always so hesitant around him? Because she forgot how to talk?

Rather than dwelling on whether or not she got the right kind of Dating Feelings™ from Lucien, she asks in the softest and gentlest voice she can manage, “Was there… just _one_ girl or… Or was it like… a series of realisations?”

Mélie’s shoulders do this funny flopping motion against the bedspread as she tries to shrug and fails. “Dunno. Bit of both?” She’s silent for a heavy beat, fingers twisting together on her stomach. “Are you… you’re not gonna ask who, right?”

Amicia laughs, a thin, shivering sound, and reaches out to take her hand. “No. I won’t ask you that if you promise not to ask who the first boy was I liked the look of.”

“It wasn’t Lucien?” she asks with a quirk to her lips and one eyebrow.

“No.”

“Scandal!”

Amicia gives her a half-hearted shove, but they’re laughing now, and that’s what matters. “Mélie?” she whispers.

“Hm?”

“Would you… would you tell me if you met someone?”

Mélie rolls her head around to look at her and that strange sparkling _something_ is back in her eyes, glittering, a promise. “Yeah. Of course.”

She squeezes Mélie’s hand. “Good. Because I want you to be able to tell me stuff like that.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“And um… do you want to come to the rec centre with me and Arthur this weekend?”

Mélie’s fingers twitch in her grasp and when she looks up again her face has gone the same deep red as before. “No thanks,” she manages, strangled.

“Look, if you think she’s pretty, ask her out.”

“Oh my god, Amicia. Stop.”

Amicia laughs, fond – she hopes Mélie knows it’s fond – and holds her hand tighter, shifts around to press a kiss to her crown. “You’re such a dork.”

“Says _you_.”

\--

The four of them do all end up going to the rec centre the next Friday; they pile into Robert’s van because he’s taking Hugo to spend the morning with his friend across town. Mélie and Lucas go to the stationary store and then hang out at the book shop down the street from the rec centre.

“You sure you wanna come, sis?” Arthur asks, teasing, leaning across the hood of the van while they wait for Hugo.

She flips him off. “Not to the rec centre. I’m going with Lucas.”

“You are?” Lucas asks, looking up. “Why?”

“I want paints.”

Arthur’s smile widens until it’s all pointed teeth and snark. “You’re just scared you might see the hot tennis girl again.”

“The…” Lucas blinks between them. “Did I miss something?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Arthur says.

“Ugh.”

“You two aren’t sitting together on the drive down,” Amicia tells them flatly.

“Fine. But I call shotgun,” Arthur decides, sidling around to the passenger seat.

Of course, Mélie argues and that starts a whole bit until Robert and Hugo emerge from the front door. Arthur gets the front seat, Lucas and Hugo end up in the middle two, and Mélie squishes into the back with Amicia. It keeps the twins as far from each other as possible and Hugo remains entertained by Lucas’ magic the whole ride across town.

Mélie and Lucas are dropped off first, then Amicia and Arthur, and when Robert waves farewell and peels away from the curb he reminds them, “Don’t forget to meet me at the café for lunch, okay?”

“No worries, dad.”

“Bye, Amicia! Bye, Arthur!” Hugo calls, leaning out the window to wave, full-bodied, at them.

There are more people at the rec centre this weekend; it’s towards the end of the summer holidays so kids especially are cramming in as much stuff as they can into the last of their free time. All four tennis courts are in use when they wander up that end, one of which – wouldn’t you know it – is being used by the hot tennis couple from last time.

Arthur just about squeals, whether with delight or frustration she isn’t sure. Maybe he isn’t either. “I can’t believe Mélie _missed_ this.”

Amicia claps him on the shoulder. “I think it’s probably in everyone’s best interests that she’s not here.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you abuse your right as a brother sometimes. She never made fun of you for Cici.”

That must hit something still raw and close to his heart because his teeth click shut audibly and when he does speak again it’s to say, “Yeah… okay, you make a good point.” He jerks his thumb off to one side. “I’m gonna go to the little boys’ room. I’ll be back.”

“Alright, I’ll be here.”

“Grab a court if someone leaves,” he calls over his shoulder.

She waves at him, not noticing if he can see, too busy pulling her racket from the bag and tucking a ball into her waist pouch. Adjusting the tongues on her sneakers, she sticks her legs out as far as she can and sinks down low on the bench, tucking the bottom of her skirt under a bit further when she settles. The little tennis skirt like Arthur once asked her to wear.

Amicia is focused on fiddling with the pleats in it so she doesn’t notice immediately when someone approaches her, not until a pair of pale ankles protruding from beige and green sneakers stops in front of her anyway. Her eyes trail up and up a truly _devastating_ expanse of creamy leg until she reaches the hem of a skirt, then there’s a strip of burgundy fabric, another slice of toned skin, a white and red sports top underneath which she can see the hint of a pink bra, and then a face.

She knows without really thinking about it, that _her_ face has gone a shade to match this girl’s skirt: it’s the hot tennis girl.

“Hi,” hot tennis girl says.

Amicia doesn’t manage to reply, not coherently, anyway. “Uh,” is what she says.

Hot tennis girl smiles. “Do you and your friend want to play doubles with us?”

“Hm?”

“Your friend, the red head guy.”

“Oh. Doubles.” At last, a proper word. “Yes.” It’s not much but it _is_ an improvement.

Hot tennis girl extends a hand. “I’m Claudette.”

“Uh.” She’s not sure if she’s meant to shake the hand or take it to be helped to her feet? Unclear. She stands on her own and says, “Amicia.”

“And that’s Jeong.”

Vaguely, Amicia is aware of the tall, dark haired boy behind her, still on the court, his racket tilted over his shoulder. But only vaguely. Mostly she’s just absorbed with how much hair this girl has and how she’s keeping it pulled back and orderly even when slicked with sweat across her forehead and mostly fly-aways around her ears. She lifts an eyebrow and Amicia remembers she should probably speak.

“Oh. Right. Arthur.”

“Cool.”

Amicia follows her slowly, a little dazed – she’s not _super_ used to being approached out of nowhere by a complete stranger. Especially not after the whole thing last year with Lucien and Cecile where they were the people _no one_ would talk to.

“So is your friend single?” Claudette asks.

She trips over her toe. “What?”

“Your friend, Arthur,” she repeats. “Is he single?”

“Um. Yes?” She has no idea if it’s important to mention that he’s also not interested in long term. Maybe? But also it’s maybe none of her business.

Claudette hums, bobs her head, says nothing else until they reach the centre of the court. Then she says, just exactly like it’s nothing, “He’s single,” and Jeong smiles.

“Well, I mean,” he mutters, “that’s _something_.”

“Oi!”

She turns to see Arthur standing at their bench, looking at her stuff. Amicia sticks two fingers between her lips and whistles; he jumps fair out of his skin part way through whirling to spot her. She waves him over even as he’s making a weird wobbly shrug to ask something she can’t translate.

When he pushes through the wire gate onto the court he asks, “What are you doing?”

“They invited us to play doubles,” she tells him with a half shrug.

He blinks. “They… oh.” Then he does this thing where he smiles a crooked, toothy smile and lifts a hand in a cute little wave and says, “Hi. Arthur.”

Claudette beams and introduces them, too; only she smiles in a way that’s not… super familiar to Amicia. It’s not the way other girls smile at Arthur, it’s more… sisterly, maybe. “You alright for a couple of games?”

“We’ve never played doubles,” Arthur explains. “It’s always just the two of us, so go easy, maybe?”

Jeong laughs, deep and honest. “Nah. We’ll show you how it works but it’s trial by fire here.”

Arthur levels his racket at him. “Oh yeah?” He weaves sideways into Amicia and says, “I like him already.”

Doubles, it turns out, is fairly similar to singles, only instead of hitting the ball every turn, they hit it every _other_ turn. Otherwise the bouncing in the lines and all that is pretty much the same.

Despite his words, Jeong and Claudette very clearly do go easy on them for the first little while, nothing but slow shots and casual returns. But once Amicia and Arthur have gotten the hang of swapping back and forth, they pick up the pace. Jeong is much faster than his size would suggest and Claudette… well, Amicia had noticed her shoulders last time, and this is no exception. It’s not a _surprise_ that she has such a nasty back hand, but it is very hard to counter.

Luckily, her back hand is almost exclusively Arthur’s territory, and he makes no bones about telling her precisely what he thinks.

“You wanna take my whole arm off next time, yeah?”

Claudette laughs, flipping her racket around her wrist. “If you’d like. I can aim a little lower, too.”

It takes Amicia a moment to parse that one, but Arthur just grins at her and serves as hard as he can down Jeong’s throat. Unfortunately, Jeong isn’t easily bluffed into sidestepping an incoming ball, and so Amicia then has to deal with the redirected velocity, she barely manages it.

It’s only a matter of time until things go just a smidge awry, of course. More people on the court means more limbs and more ways for things to go flying off in a direction no one anticipated. In this instance, the direction is precisely into Amicia’s nose.

She drops to her knees a split second too late, hands flying to her face after the almighty crack that she supposes was probably only almighty to her thanks to proximity. The others are off the mark in a clatter of rackets hitting acrylic and Arthur skids to a stop at her side, probably ruining the knees of his pants in the process.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Fine.”

He lifts a hand to pull hers away from her face and hisses. “That’s… yeah okay, fine my ass.”

“I have a medkit in my bag,” Claudette tells him. “Get her up and over there, I can patch her up.”

“This happen a lot?” Arthur asks as he pulls Amicia to her feet.

“More than you might expect,” Jeong says, voice taut. “I’m so sorry, Amicia.”

She can feel his hand fluttering around her shoulder, not sure if he should touch her or not. “It’s fine,” she repeats, “Accidents happen.”

Then she’s being pressed onto the bench and Claudette is replacing Arthur in the spot in front of her.

“Let me see.” Her tone is borderline command and Amicia doesn’t even think about not obeying. Before Claudette gets more than a quick look, though, she’s twisting at the waist to the boys. “Go. Play a round or two, or something. She doesn’t need a crowd.”

Arthur hesitates but allows himself to be drawn off by Jeong after a moment.

Claudette’s hands dip into her satchel and come up with a rag and a dark bottle that will probably produce a stinging ointment. She’s gentle when she touches the fabric to Amicia’s nose, wiping away blood to see properly.

“It’s not broken,” she murmurs, “Lucky you.”

She’s efficient at tidying up the cut and pressing a bandage down over the top. So fast, in fact, that Amicia doesn’t have much time before she’s standing to properly process anything.

Consequently, she’s just sort of vomiting words before Claudette escapes and the guys are suddenly within hearing distance. “You weren’t asking about Arthur for yourself, were you?”

Claudette looks at her for a moment, surprised. Then she smiles, offers her hand again. “No. Jeong saw you two the last time we were here. He’s too much of a chicken to ask a boy out, though.”

This time, Amicia takes the hand. “Why?”

“Too many misinterpretations of intent, I suppose.” She looks at Amicia crosswise. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Arthur’s never mentioned being into guys, that’s all. He could be, I guess, he’s just never said anything.”

“So should I tell Jeong to woman up and ask?” Claudette asks around her brilliant smile.

For a second, Amicia doesn’t even realise she’s been asked that question and when she does says, “Sure, why not? Arthur’s not a mean guy, worst he can say is no.”

Claudette laughs, but it’s wry, tinged with something that clearly comes from experiences to the contrary. “You’d be surprised how nasty boys can be. Jeong’s still convinced that it’s best to keep it on the down low until after high school.”

“Yeah,” Amicia sighs. “I have a friend who feels the same way.”

“It’s probably the right feeling.”

“Maybe. Personally? I think Arthur could use a little bit of honesty in a relationship. Something _real_.”

The look Claudette gives her is weighted, but with what, she can’t tell. She sways sideways so their shoulders bump. “I’ll tell him to say something.”

“Yeah. If nothing else, it’s fun playing tennis with you.”

She lifts a hand to rub sympathetically at her nose. “Injuries and all?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Aha! That’s the spirit.”

\--

They’re standing on the curb outside the café later, waiting for Mélie and Lucas to arrive from the bookstore (they said they were coming but knowing Lucas they could be trapped in the latest releases section for another twenty minutes, and knowing Mélie, she’ll let him) when Arthur finally says something.

“So…”

And that’s as far as he gets until Amicia ribs him playfully. “Spit it out.”

“Jeong asked me out.”

“And?”

He turns, both eyebrows disappearing into his sweat-damp fringe. “You’re not surprised.”

She shrugs. “Claudette might have said something.” She hooks their elbows together. “What did you say?”

“I said yes. We’re going to have lunch next week.”

Amicia finds his hand and squeezes it. “Have fun. And be _nice_ to him.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Mélie and I worry, you know,” she whispers.

“About me?”

“About how you put a cap on how long you’re willing to see someone.”

His hand clenches around hers almost painfully. “I’m not going to be hurt again.” There’s a dark undertone to his voice when he says that.

“What Cici did was awful,” she agrees, “but Mélie doesn’t think this is good for you.”

He scoffs. “What’s wrong with wanting to be careful?”

“Careful, sure. But try being… try being _yourself_, please? We all love you. There’s no need to hide that just to keep your heart safe.”

“Easy for you to say. You did the breaking up with Lucien, no heartbreak necessary.”

“He tried to make me choose between him and my friends,” she reminds him. “That doesn’t mean it was easy. And what Cecile did after affected all of us.”

He sighs. “Yeah. So what? You want me to be _open_ to something?”

“Just have fun. And ignore the little timer in the back of your head counting down to the three-week mark. Please?”

Arthur closes his eyes, tips his head back to the sun and when he looks back down, when he exhales this shaky little breath, he says, “Yeah. Okay. I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” And she rocks up to kiss his cheek.

He wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

\--

It’s late afternoon, the sun setting golden and pink behind the house, when Amicia’s phone beeps with a message. Lucas looks at her, a silent question plain in his eyes.

“Arthur,” she tells him. And he sits forward slightly. She’d told him about the date with hot tennis boy.

The message reads:_ i kissed him_

“God, he’s the worst at this.”

So she texts him back, _verdict?_

Typing bubbles appear, bounce, vanish. Then they’re back and he spends a while working on it before replying, _u want gory details huh? u should know what kissing a boy is like_

She rolls her eyes. _i want your specific opinion jerk_

There’s a long delay. Long enough that Lucas shuffles his lawn chair around so he can peer over her shoulder.

Finally:_ it was rly nice. we're going out next weekend_

“What does this mean?” Lucas asks.

“I guess it means Arthur is trying something new,” she says, smiling.

Lucas’ brows pinch together. “But…”

“He can tell us in his own time. If there’s anything to tell.”

Amicia can see the formulas in Lucas’ brain translating that, coming to a conclusion, and she can see exactly when he reaches it. “Oh. Like Mélie?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Huh.”

She receives no more messages from Arthur, though he drops the occasional comment into their group chat, but she _does_ get one from Mélie later that evening.

_he's a little early on the college experimentation don’t u think_, it reads and laughter bubbles from her chest without permission.

Amicia dials her number and Mélie answers before the third ring. She’s laughing too, but softer.

“Only a year left until university,” she points out when she catches her breath.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“Is he alright?”

There’s a pause in which the only thing Amicia can hear is the shifting of fabric and then the click of a door. “Yeah,” Mélie whispers. “He’s… I dunno, excited maybe?”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Did Lucas say anything?”

“Mostly just a reiteration of what he said when you told us,” she explains, matching Mélie’s volume even though she doesn’t have to. “At least he’s figuring it out now and not when he’s in his fifties, sixties, whatever.”

She makes a funny little noise. “Sounds like Lucas.” There’s another shifting sound. “Arthur did say one thing…”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. If Jeong turns out not to be a fluke, that you’re the only straight one among us.” Her voice turns to laughter at the end and despite the flicker of something warm between Amicia’s ribs (that might be annoyance? She’s not sure) she laughs too.

“Punch him for me.”

“You got it, princess.”


	3. Chapter 3

La terminale begins with a storm. Not a metaphorical one, but an actual, real storm.

The rain arrives in a steady drizzle the last Sunday of the summer break and by the next morning it has grown into a proper deluge, complete with thunder and lightning and rivers down either side of the street. School _isn’t _cancelled, so Robert picks up Mélie and Arthur and Lucas on the way in to keep them all dry. Hugo bounces in his seat, excited for some reason about the wet weather.

“This is a portent,” Lucas says, dismally, once they’re standing in the corridor. Out of the rain, but in the middle of the equally overwhelming torrent of students yelling about their break.

“Don’t be such a Debby Downer,” Arthur tells him, bopping his shoulder. “Weather doesn’t predict the future.”

“It does in some cultures,” Mélie supplies, unhelpfully.

“I bet none of us have any classes together,” Lucas continues.

“Well that’s just not going to happen,” Amicia says. “Mélie and I are guaranteed to have art and history together, and Arthur has IT with her, too. We’ll be fine.”

He scrunches his nose up. “Maybe it’s a foretelling of how our grades are going to turn out, then.”

“Whoa, there,” Arthur says almost before Lucas is finished speaking. “Let’s not be _that_ pessimistic on our first day back. There’s twelve months between us and final grades.”

“Plenty of time for things to go wrong then.”

“What’s got into you today?” Mélie asks, tilting towards him. “Usually you’re the good one.”

He sighs mightily and slouches off, muttering about bad weather and ill fortune. Both twins round on her. She sighs too.

“He spent a lot of time with us over the break, right? More than usual?”

That thought ticks over for both of them before it dings something, ringing true. “Yeah?” Arthur finally ventures, “So?”

“Laurentius was unwell,” she confides. “Like… _quite_ unwell.”

“He drove us into town, though,” Mélie mumbles.

“No, _I_ drove, he sat in the side seat. He’s been seeing a doctor, that’s why he had to go into town so often. Lucas is just worried that it’s… that he’s going to lose his grandfather.”

Their eyes go wide. Then Arthur exclaims, “Why didn’t he _say_ something?”

“It’s Lucas,” Mélie returns, “He doesn’t like to talk about that stuff.”

“So those times he said he was getting _gardening_ stuff…?”

“Doctor’s appointments,” Amicia confirms.

“Is he okay?” Mélie asks, voice soft. “What can we do?”

She shakes her head. “Not much. Lucas said the doctor is sure he’ll be fine, he just needs rest and medication.”

“Lucas isn’t convinced?”

Amicia lifts a hand to wave after him. “Some days more convinced than others. Just… Just be there for him?”

They both nod firmly and Arthur says, “Duh.”

\--

Lucas’ predictions of misfortune are not fulfilled. She has literature and maths, both, with him; and the former with Mélie, latter with Arthur, as well. Business remains the only class she takes alone, but that’s not so bad. Sure, Lucas picked all the awful science subjects, so none of them are in his physics or chemistry classes, but they’re with him as often as timetabling allows.

That’s not to say things go smoothly, of course.

Amicia’s business class is right by the IT rooms, so after art, she walks Mélie to her lesson before continuing on her way; it’s just good sense. But once done, she turns the corner to go to her room and what do you know, she walks directly into Lucien.

“Oof,” he grunts as she bounces away from his chest. From the glassiness to his eyes, she’s caused him more pain by reminding him of her existence than by walking into him physically. “Oh. Amicia. Hi.”

Off to a great start there with those single syllable words.

“Hey, Lucien,” she says, unable to meet his eyes. “Good break?” Maybe she can’t speak, hers are single syllable too.

He hitches his bag, adjusting the strap across his shoulder. “Can’t complain. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s… um. How’s Cici?”

Something crinkles around his eyes, his mouth, in a way she can’t identify. “Yeah… she’s… good. We’re good. Went to a concert.”

“Oh nice…” She’s run out of awkward platitudes so she points past him. “I gotta…”

“Yeah. Yep, right. Me too.”

Then they’re stepping past each other in a weird little dance and laughing without meaning it. Terrible.

She doesn’t have any classes with Cecile, but she sees her around, tries not to look for too long, or be caught staring and wondering. It’s not… she doesn’t _hope_ they break up, but she does kind of wish that Cecile gets some of her just desserts. For Arthur’s sake.

And that’s… well, not the _first_ time they’ve spoken since they broke up (since _she_ broke up with _him_) but it is the most they’ve said to each other in a while.

“That looked like a trauma,” Mélie says to her at lunch.

She looks up and says, “Huh?” around a mouthful of fruit salad.

“Graceful.” Mélie folds her legs beside her. “That little confrontation with Lucien outside IT.”

“Oh,” she manages after swallowing, “Right. No it was…”

“Awkward? Horrible to watch?”

“Shut up.” Mélie laughs so she adds, “Yeah, all of those things.”

“Cici was watching from the upper landing. I had a great view of your encounter and also her blossoming apoplexy,” she confesses. “What did he want?” She unzips her bag and tips out a sandwich. “Was it his ‘please take me back’ speech?”

Amicia snorts. “Hardly. We exchanged some lame excuse for small talk and then left, that’s all. But if Cecile thinks I’m going to date him again and get some sort of complex over it well…” She shrugs, sticks another forkful of fruit into her mouth. “Whatever.”

“I heard Cici blew a gasket.” That’s how Arthur greets them as he plonks down with Lucas. “Not sure what class it was in, but apparently someone said something and she ended up in tears having a complete meltdown.”

Mélie jabs an elbow into Amicia’s ribs. “Not only did you annoy her by dating Lucien, now you’re annoying her and you’re _not_ dating him. What’s it feel like to be the most powerful girl in school?”

“Irritating,” she huffs. “Because now she’s going to remember I exist and make my life hard.”

“What happened?” Lucas asks. He’s calmed down somewhat from this morning; perhaps having someone else’s drama to think about is helping allay his own worries.

“I bumped into Lucien and we said about eight words to each other,” Amicia explains.

“Cici saw them talk,” Mélie adds for context. “I guess she’s blowing it out of proportion.”

“She does have quite a good sense for theatrics,” Arthur muses. “We should show her how it’s done.”

“No,” Lucas blurts at the same time Amicia says, “Look, if you want to try _poisoning_ people again, maybe save it for later in the year.”

“Oh, we have a _prank_ allowance?” Arthur drawls.

This time, Lucas and Amicia are on the exact same page when they both reply with an emphatic, “Yes!”

Mélie leans towards her brother. “I think they’d be more lenient if we forwent the poison.”

He nods sagely. “Pigs’ blood it is.”

\--

Their teachers, may all the world’s curses be upon them, back up all of the preceding year’s harping about getting ready for their big end of school exams and picking out universities and getting application forms and letters sorted early in a _big_ way. Not even just… ‘don’t forget this is what happens at the end of the year’; but they hammer it home.

“If you haven’t sorted your top five university preferences by the end of September, you won’t have them finished in time.”

“Ensure your letters of application are specific to the course you’re applying for _not_ the university.”

“Keep those letters brief, kids, no university officer is going to read a six page monologue.”

“Don’t stop revising just because your applications go out in November. If your grades slip it won’t matter how well-crafted your letters are, no university will take you.”

It drives Lucas absolutely batty.

“What happens,” he begins in a tizzy one Saturday morning, “if none of us are nearby? What if we all get into different universities? I don’t know how to make friends!”

Arthur extends one leg and prods him in the knee, not hard, but Lucas is so frazzled he sits down anyway. “Relax, nerd. None of us are applying for universities out of the state, let alone out of the country.”

Lucas runs his hands through his hair. “We could still be hours away from each other.”

“You’ll manage without us on weekdays,” Mélie says flatly, stealing the literature notes from Amicia while her attention is fixed on Lucas. “You did before and you will again.”

“No!” he insists. “You’re my best friends! I don’t want to lose you because of graduation!”

“You won’t, Lucas.” Amicia stands, crosses the room and takes his hand, drawing his gaze out of whatever nightmare world he’s conjured. “We’ll be fine. None of us are going to leave.”

He opens his mouth, probably to spout statistics about how high school friendships don’t last the test of time or graduation (specifically), but Arthur interrupts.

“Look, buddy. You’ve stuck with us through a lot of shit. Now it’s our turn.” He jabs his toes at Lucas’ calf again. “This is a life sentence, my man.”

The air rushes out of Lucas in a mighty deflation. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mélie says, firm.

Lucas looks from each of them to the next, settling last of all on Amicia. “You mean it? Even if our timetables are garbage and clash all the time, we’ll still find time for each other?”

“Yes,” Amicia says, staring him right in the eyes. His close slowly and she looks away, finding first Arthur, and then Mélie and meaning more each time she fixes one of them with her gaze. “I will _make_ time for you.”

Mélie smiles and Amicia knows that even if she has to reorganise the very clocks that run the world to make it so, she’ll do it.

\--

And of course, with the academic panic of their final year comes something that holds almost as much importance (many students can be heard to say it’s _more_ important, even): their graduation prom.

It’s all talk about dresses and jewellery and car hire and what venue the school will rent out. It’s girls with heads together about getting their dates in matching ties and whether or not the boy they’re currently dating is _good enough_. It’s boys shrugging off the whole thing with, “Tuxes can be rented cheap any time of year,” despite protestations to the contrary from pretty much everyone.

It’s Lucas, brows furrowed in deep thought saying, “Do we _have_ to go, or is it optional?”

And then Arthur chiming in with, “We should all go. Together.”

It’s Mélie whining, “_Please_, the prom? God, that means _dresses_.”

And Amicia’s returning, “I bet you’d look just nice in a suit, too.”

Which leads to Mélie declaring that she will not be part of a group dress up thing again and Lucas suggesting that they could just not go and save themselves all the time and money and stress (when exams are _right there_ to stress about and who needs more).

“I think it’ll be fun,” Amicia murmurs.

Mélie says, “Of course you do,” backed up by her brother’s impressive eye roll.

“It’s a night with friends.”

“And all the other morons we go to school with.”

“We’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring them, I feel,” Amicia replies, toneless. “Besides, what better way to make fun of those morons than together? Think of all the potential for drama.”

_That’s_ what gets Arthur to smile. Lucas just continues looking worried.

\--

“You know…” Arthur begins slowly, leaning against the doorframe. “You could come with us. It wouldn’t be weird.”

“It’d be super weird,” Mélie disagrees. “And we’re not doing that.”

“We wouldn’t make it weird.”

“Literally everything you touch turns weird.”

“Amicia,” he pleads, “help a guy out.”

“We’re not going with you and Jeong on your date because that would be super awkward and I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime,” she says, locking the front door.

“_Thank_ you,” Mélie exhales.

“Hate to break it to you, kiddo,” Robert calls from the lawn, “but you’re only seventeen. There’s plenty more awkward waiting for you yet.”

“Thanks, dad. Real motivational.”

“Just hurry up. I want to beat the traffic on the way to pick Hugo up.”

As always, it’s a procession when they go anywhere. The four of them clamber into the van – Mélie and Arthur kept separate – they stop to collect Lucas (who needs distracting), then they all tumble back out at the train station. Robert’s off with a wave and a last minute, “Call when ready,” and they’re shuffling onto the next available train heading into the centre of town.

“You’re gonna be alright, yeah?” Arthur wants to know. Amicia checks the platform names in a manner bordering paranoid, but he seems remarkably calm for someone heading off to a place he’s never been before and all on his own.

“We’ll be fine,” Mélie says, slipping her fingers into the crook of Amicia’s elbow to pull her away from the line map. “You just be safe. And text when you get there.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Jeong offered to show Arthur around the neighbourhood where he lives (as a date, or date-adjacent outing at the least), which is fine; the area isn’t sketchy at all. It’s just that Arthur isn’t the best at directions and he’s going _alone_ and yeah. So Amicia worries. What if he gets lost?

Forget having a phone (which can help with directions or calling for help or anything like that), what if his battery dies or he gets pick-pocketed? At least she’ll have Mélie and Lucas.

“Be careful,” Amicia tells him as they part ways at the station exit.

“You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough,” she replies.

He gives her a lightning fast hug. “I have you for that. I’ll be careful, promise. And I’ll meet you at the bookstore and we’ll go get dinner.”

“Sure.”

Then he’s disappearing into the crowd and she _knows_, logically, that he’s perfectly capable on his own; was fine before they met and will be fine without support for a couple of hours. It’s just… he’s been so fragile since Cecile and this is big for him and… she _worries_.

“Right,” Mélie’s voice cuts through her thoughts. “Let’s go get a hot chocolate and stop thinking about my brother making out on street corners.”

Amicia wrinkles her nose. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”

She just laughs. “But you are now, which means you’ve stopped worrying about him for a few seconds. Good. He’ll be fine.”

“I know…” she huffs. “I just…”

Mélie squeezes her arm. “You want him to know he has an out if he needs it. Yeah. That’s why we’re here.”

Amicia sighs again, leans a little further into Mélie’s side. “When did you become so good at reassuring me.”

“Right after you convinced me that you’re a permanent thing I have to deal with.”

“At least there’s that then.”

Lucas is the one with the forethought to open a map app on his phone, so while they trail behind him, he’s locating the nearest (and most reputable) café at which they can buy something to eat. He walks past two without looking up from his phone and neither of them care to interrupt him; he’s probably got a plan.

After crossing another couple of blocks, he pulls a door open and holds it for them.

“Why this one?” Mélie asks him, following Amicia. “Why not one of the others we passed?”

Amicia stops abruptly just inside and Mélie bumps into her with a little huff. “It’s a cat café,” she whispers.

“Yes,” Lucas confirms. “I thought it might be nice.” He shuffles past Mélie who’s now leaning over Amicia’s shoulder but before he gets further inside he turns back. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No.”

He smiles and it’s maybe the first almost-sincere smile she’s seen from him in days. Amicia takes his hand. “Let’s go pay, alright?”

Lucas squeezes her fingers in response.

They spend enough money for them to stay an hour upstairs with the cats and Amicia orders them some hot chocolates as well which will be brought up to them, which is very nice. No sooner have they tromped up and picked a table than a brindle cat has leap onto Mélie’s lap and curled into a purring ball. Her hand drops thoughtlessly onto its back and smooths across the fur.

“A cat person, are you?” Amicia laughs.

“I guess so.” The cat sure seems to agree, tucking its face closer to Mélie’s stomach. “Never had a pet.”

“Would you want one?” Lucas asks.

She hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. Maybe one day.”

Amicia watches her face and the way the light hits her hair and turns it eight shades of gold, the way her lips quirk in a soft smile at the cat, the way her eyes light up. It’s nice. She just barely manages not to say something about maybe the four of them getting a share house or apartment after graduation and how they could have pets then. Only _just_.

Lucas scoops up the fluffiest white cat Amicia has ever seen and is cradling it baby-style in his arms when the waitress comes up with their hot chocolates. She places them on the table and pauses to watch the cat with Mélie and a smile tugs at her face too before she goes.

Their phones all ding together before any of them so much as reach for their mugs but Amicia, the only one not currently impeded by a cat, is who checks what it is: a message from Arthur to their group chat. She swipes it open and is met by a squished selfie of him with Jeong.

“He made it,” she tells them, turning the screen so they can see. Amicia snaps a quick photo of Mélie still running her fingers down the cat’s spine and sends it back.

It takes a few seconds, but he replies, _a cat café! without me!! insulting!_

_have fun_, she tells him and tucks her phone into her back pocket.

\--

They meet Arthur and Jeong for dinner not far from their closest bookstore (Arthur now burdened by a trio of novels he couldn’t say no to), and Amicia immediately thinks about all the times they’d hung out with Cecile or Lucien and any of their friends. It’s not the same. Jeong is warm and funny and he looks at Arthur like he can’t believe this is real.

Mélie teases them about it, but everything is said around her wide grin and is imbued with none of the venom she’s capable of.

Amicia takes a photo of him and Arthur and sends it to their chat. Arthur sticks his tongue out but sets it as his lock screen.

Later, she goes back through the chat and finds that photo of Mélie and the cat and does the same.

\--

They forgo any of the Halloween parties thrown this year and instead cram themselves and as many varieties of holiday themed candies as possible into Laurentius’ living room and marathon movies. Laurentius’ face is drawn and pale, hands all bone and sinew; but his appearance is belied by his manner. He smiles when he waves them in, sits with them and jokes happily, beaming a bright grin that transforms his face.

He retires earliest, understandably, and Lucas helps him down the hall into his room. That is clearly judged to be the best time to broach the subject.

Arthur breathes, “Is he alright?” at the same time Mélie asks, “Do we know what’s wrong?”

“Lucas said it’s an infection in his lungs?” Amicia replies, just as quietly. “He’s going to the hospital for some kind of treatment next month that should help.”

“Is this…” Arthur starts, stops, presses his lips together and sighs before trying again. “Is this the sort of thing that could be like… Could he die?”

“Maybe,” Amicia whispers. “The doctors are hopeful, though, the treatment should be all he needs.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

“It will be.” She keeps her voice firm, fights down the waver threatening to give her away. “He’ll be fine.”

Lucas slips back in a few minutes later with more chips and sprawls out between Amicia and Arthur. “He’s asleep, we should keep it down.”

“You got it.”

Halloween might not be as much a party for them, but it’s no less important.

\--

The exact importance becomes apparent in November. It’s snowing this year, a constant flurry of soft powder has been falling since Thursday and with a little luck, school will be cancelled on Monday.

Seamus Dubois has been in a foul mood for reasons no one – least of all his children – can explain, but regardless, they’ve decided to spend the weekend at Amicia’s place. (It’s been two years since the coffee table incident, but she fully understands not wanting to be alone with Seamus anyway. They have a new coffee table now, after all.)

Arthur is sprawled out on their sofa, having turned it into a fort with Hugo earlier (and Amicia’s pretty sure she hears her brother’s footsteps patter down the hall to join him sometime during the night). As always, she shares her bed with Mélie and given the drop in temperature, it’s nice to have the extra warmth.

What’s less nice is waking up just after midnight when her phone goes off several times in succession.

At first, when her eyes open, she’s violently astral projected back to the night she woke up to Arthur’s frantic texts and this awful, thick lump rises like bile in her throat, a prickle runs across her shoulders as she’s gripped by this absolute conviction that something has once again happened to Mélie. But they’re pressed together closely enough that Amicia can find her wrist easily in the darkness – feel her pulse, her body heat, hear her soft breathing – and slowly her heart rate calms.

Her phone beeps again though and so she knows it wasn’t just a nightmare that woke her.

This one, when she flops over to grab it, squinting at the brightness of the screen, is from Lucas.

“Mm? Amicia?” Mélie mumbles groggily.

“Here. Lucas messaged.”

She feels Mélie shift behind her, sitting up probably. “He okay?”

“He’s fine. Laurentius had to go to the hospital tonight. He wants to know if we can get to him.”

Mélie leans her weight against Amicia’s back and exhales. “I’ll get Arthur.”

Amicia laughs. “I’ll wake my father.”

“He’s such a patient man.”

“This doesn’t happen often.”

“Thank _god_.”

Waking Robert, however, also wakes Beatrice; and getting Arthur up disturbs Hugo so the whole house ends up roused from sleep at stupid o’clock.

“Ugh,” her father grumbles.

“We have to go to the hospital,” Amicia tells him, prodding at his ribs. “Please.”

He rolls over. “What is it with you kids and the hospital?” But he stands, pulls his shoes on and a big thick coat. He also then does a pointed headcount despite knowing full well that they’re all there (except Lucas). Robert must reach that conclusion, too, because he says, “So Lucas this time? You better not be making a habit of this.”

“Laurentius, actually,” she corrects. “And no. But he was scheduled for surgery last week and he was home fine, but Lucas’ text was a bit… frantic. He probably missed some details.”

After a long-suffering sigh and a moment to lift Hugo into bed with Beatrice, he’s grabbing the keys and ushering the three of them out into the snow. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.”

The worst part of this trip is finding Lucas in the glaring white of the hospital corridor, looking so small in his oversized snow-jacket and made more so somehow by the overly bright fluorescent bulbs. He’s sitting with his feet pulled up onto the plastic chair, arms around his knees, chin in the dip between them, staring glassy-eyed at the lemon-scrubbed lino floor. He barely notices when Amicia and Arthur sink down on either side, each wrapping one arm around him.

“Hey, Lucas,” Arthur murmurs. “How’s he doing?”

Standing a little ways off, close enough to help, but not so close as to be suffocating, Robert drops a hand onto Mélie’s shoulder. It’s on them that Lucas focuses first.

“He…” Lucas’ voice cracks right down the middle and tears spill out. “He had a… fit, or something. He wouldn’t stop coughing. I had to call the ambulance.”

Translation: they don’t know how he is.

Amicia squeezes him tighter. Mélie perches uncomfortably on the seat beside her and reaches over to take one of Lucas’ hands.

“I’m going to see the doctor,” Robert tells them. He smooths his palm over Lucas’ hair on the way past.

It’s… It’s a long night.

Amicia falls asleep on Mélie’s shoulder but wakes up – groggy and disoriented in the lights – an hour later when Lucas starts beside her and elbows her in the side. He’d fallen asleep slumped forward and apparently gravity tipped him forward just far enough to pull him from sleep.

She takes him down the hall and they buy a packet of chips from the vending machine; standing there in the flat white in the middle of the night surrounded by late shift nurses and shambling patients in their pale blue dresses is sort of eerie. Dreamlike, maybe. Opening the packet of chips seems too loud and crunching them between teeth feels too real.

They doze off again eventually and are woken in the wee hours by a doctor shaking Lucas awake.

“He’s going into surgery,” the nurse says, probably not for the first time. “He’ll be out for a few hours.” The nurse suggests they go home, get some proper rest, eat a real meal.

They don’t. Robert does, but the four of them sit crammed into one of the guest lounges until they nod off again.

The next time Amicia wakes up, she finds Lucas pacing from the water cooler to the chair and back again. She blinks. Beatrice is sitting on one of the plastic chairs with a magazine and a bag full of food that she keeps trying to use to entice Lucas to stop moving.

“I can’t,” he tells her. “I _can’t_. They said he’d be done by now.”

“He’s fine, Lucas,” Beatrice tells him in her Mum Voice™, all soothing tones and warmth. “Please. Sit. Have something to eat.”

Mélie stirs against Amicia’s shoulder. “Breakfast?” she hums. “Mrs de Rune, you’re my fave.”

Beatrice laughs, but passes her a breakfast bar and a bottle of orange juice.

As soon as Mélie has leaned away from her, Amicia does the same, stomach making a protest at having been ignored for so long. (Which is why she checks the time on her phone and is dismayed to see that; first, it’s just after six, and second, that her battery is nearly down to twelve percent. She turns it off. Everyone who might need to reach her is within hugging distance anyway.

Lucas finally sits down as Arthur takes his breakfast from Beatrice. His leg jiggles and he chews his lip almost as much as his food, but at least he’s making an effort not to wear a hole in the floor.

There’s another agonising half hour before a nurse approaches them.

“Lucas Buisson?”

All of them – even Beatrice – launch to their feet. “Yes?” Lucas asks, voice tiny and broken.

“Your grandfather is out of surgery. He’s asleep now, but he’ll be fine.”

“What was the problem?” Beatrice asks. Lucas doesn’t think to, he’s too busy slumping sideways into Arthur, all the strings of adrenaline that had been holding him up are cut by the words.

“He had an unexpected reaction to the antibiotics he was given for recovery,” says the doctor slowly. “It caused a build up of mucus in his lungs which made it difficult for him to breathe. We removed the mucus and have made appropriate corrections to his medication.” He pauses, perhaps stunned into silence by the ferocity of her glower, then asks, “Are you… family?”

She huffs. “If anything happens to Laurentius,” Beatrice tells him, voice cold, “We will be. He’s all the blood relation Lucas has left.”

The doctor’s face drains of colour. “Right… Um. I can show you to his room, but he’s sleeping and probably won’t wake up for a few hours.”

Beatrice nods tersely and gathers the four of them together to mother-hen them down the halls after the doctor. Laurentius is staying in just a small room, covered by his health insurance, he has his own little space with a tiny bed and a view of the alley below.

There aren’t enough chairs for them all to sit in, but that doesn’t really matter. Beatrice takes the one by the window, Lucas the one by the bed and the rest of them fold together on the floor, heads tipped back against the wall to nap.

When she wakes later it’s by the sun slanting through the blinds. Mélie is draped across her lap, face hidden against her stomach, probably to block the light out; and Arthur has his head on her shoulder, mouth open slightly. Lucas is perched on the edge of the bed, holding Laurentius’ gnarled hand, a soft smile smoothing across his face.

“… alright now, yes?” he whispers.

There’s a harsh cough, a wheeze, and then Laurentius’ voice. “Yes, my dear. I’ll be fine now.”

Lucas’ brow creases, cutting through the sunny smile just a little. “You said that last time.”

He coughs again and Amicia realises that’s him chuckling. “They did scans this time. To be safe.”

He shuffles around until he’s lying down beside his grandfather. “I love you,” Lucas murmurs, voice disappearing in the room.

Fabric shifts in the silence and Amicia closes her eyes again, laying her head on Mélie’s shoulder. But she doesn’t slip off to sleep again immediately and so she hears Laurentius’ gentle whisper, “I love you, too, Lucas. So much.”

\--

For the first time in a long time, the de Runes pack up a cooler filled with drinks and food, load their van up with extra chairs and paper-wrapped parcels and children that aren’t theirs, and spend Christmas at the Buissons’. Laurentius has recovered well enough this time from his treatment, but he’s still weak enough that leaving the house for any length of time (and it’s remained quite cold since their snowy trip to the hospital) is ill-advised. Consequently, his tiny little house tucked away near the park ends up overflowing with festive cheer when a bounding Hugo leads them all through the front door when Lucas opens it.

“Lucas!” he declares, holding up a stuffed frog. “Look what Mélie and Arthur got me for Christmas!” And he squeezes it so the toy’s long pink tongue shoots out accompanied by a squeaking sound that has already – at nine in the morning – grown irritating.

Lucas beams at him, ruffles his hair. “That’s so cute,” he laughs. “You wait until you see what we got for you.”

It’s nice to see him smiling; and when Amicia opens her arms, head tilted to one side, he takes a step closer to her, allowing her to envelop him in a warm hug. He pulls away faster than she might like (faster than Mélie might, for instance), but it’s enough.

“Is that them?” Laurentius calls, voice thin but strong.

“Yes, grandpa. They’re here.”

And he waves them all in out of the cold, getting a fist bump from Mélie and a brief clap on the shoulder from Arthur as the file through. Hugo leads the way, still, bouncing happily out into the back garden to show Laurentius his frog. The old man sits on a padded chair, propped up by cushions, pulled as close to a crackling brazier as is practical.

Amicia glances over her shoulder as she follows her friends outside; her parents have stopped to unload their coolers of food. “Do you want help?” she offers.

Robert shakes his head but it’s Beatrice who answers, “No, no. Set up the chairs. We’ve got this covered.”

The garden is probably messier than Laurentius might like, the shrubs all overgrown and several of the blooming plants haven’t had their old flowers pruned back; weeds sprout up along the edging pavers and between the brickwork, but it’s still an impressive space. None of it is grassed, the mower is too heavy for Laurentius to push around, and a broom leans against the house by the door where Lucas had swept before they arrived.

“Merry Christmas,” Amicia says softly, bending to kiss Laurentius’ cheek.

He pats her cheek, hands no longer bony and his face has filled out in the last few weeks leaving him looking much healthier. “And to you, my dear girl.” He still looks frail, smaller than she ever remembers seeing him before, but less corpse-like, which is a definite improvement.

“Mum and dad are inside getting food ready.”

“Excellent, my barbeque is at your father’s disposal.”

She laughs. “He’ll appreciate that, I’m sure.”

The brickwork has been tided quite effectively by Lucas, obviously, but by the time Robert slams through the back door carrying half a deli’s worth of meat products, a light snow has begun to dust across the yard. This sends all of them scurrying to get their things inside, to shift the brazier so it’s more under the awning and less likely to start hissing everywhere. But what it _doesn’t_ do is keep them all indoors.

After about a half-hour’s worth of snow has fallen and coated the yard with a tidy layer of white, Hugo drags Mélie by the hand out into it and insists she help him with something. Amicia watches, shoulder to shoulder with Arthur and Lucas from the kitchen windows as she crouches beside him and nods along calmly with his instructions and then they set out to complete whatever mysterious task Hugo has set them.

“He’ll catch cold,” Laurentius says.

She glances around at him; he’s pulled a woollen shawl about his shoulders, holds tightly to the corners with one hand. “I doubt mum will let him stay out there long.”

As expected, the instant Beatrice realises Hugo is out in the cold, she calls, “Amicia, go fetch your brother please. I won’t have him getting sick out there.”

She just rolls her eyes and pushes through the door.

Mélie has planted herself in the thin covering of snow and between her legs, she and Hugo are piling snow up into a domed shape.

“Building snow people, are we?” she asks, bobbing down with them.

“A castle!” Hugo tells her happily.

“Mum says if you’re going to be playing in the snow you have to put your big coat on.”

He looks up, eyes big and bright. “Alright.” And he darts off inside to get it.

“He didn’t bring a thick coat, did he?” Mélie asks.

“Nope.” Amicia offers her a hand up; her palm is freezing from the snow. “But at least if he thinks there’s a good reason for not being allowed in the cold he’s more likely to do it.”

“I see you’re preparing for puberty early,” Mélie laughs, tucking her hands into her jean pockets. “Smart.”

Amicia’s nose wrinkles up. “Oh god. I’m _definitely_ moving out before that happens.”

Mélie laughs, steps around her pile of snow and backs towards the house so she can keep watching Amicia. “You’re really thinking about that, huh?”

“Yes. For sure. Aren’t you?”

Her usual canted smile tilts in the wrong direction for a second as she says, “Can I be honest for one second?”

“Always.”

“I didn’t really think I’d get here.”

“Here where?”

“The… end?” She shrugs. “Of school. Figured we’d drop out sometime and… I dunno, find our own way doing something else.” She stops under the awning, by the back door, still watching Amicia’s face intently.

“Something less reputable, you mean.”

And her smile tips back the right way. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Well.” Amicia takes the last step closer to her, slides her fingers into Mélie’s elbow so she can hook their arms together. “I still think we could all get a place. I’m sure my parents would be much happier if they knew who I was living with.”

“Damn right,” Robert says from the barbeque.

Mélie rolls her eyes. “Alright. Whatever, princess. Let’s see how that goes.”

\--

Jeong successfully breaks Arthur’s three-week-dating pattern.

But that’s really all that can be said of it.

She steps out of the main building at the end of the day and slides her umbrella open before trotting down the stairs and heading over to the tree they always gather at before beginning the walk home. Hopefully, someone else has brought an umbrella too so they’re not all trying to cram in under hers.

Standing beneath the tree is Arthur, already, and with him (she has to squint through the rain) is Jeong. He must have really floored it to get to their school so quickly. A horn honks about two cars away and she leaps, whirling. Claudette has the driver’s window partially rolled down and waves her over.

Rather than standing, Amicia pulls the passenger door open and drops inside.

“Hey,” Claudette says, flashing a quick smile.

“Hi.” She snaps her umbrella closed and lays it by her feet. “What brings you to our side of town? And how many red lights did you run?”

She laughs. “We had a spare period in last so we bailed early to beat the rush.”

That’s answer to only _one_ of those questions, but Amicia spares her just half a glance before looking back out the windscreen at Arthur and Jeong. It doesn’t look like they’re arguing, they’re standing too closely for that; but when Jeong reaches for him Arthur takes a half pace back, shakes his head.

“Looks like a break up,” Amicia concludes.

Claudette sighs. “Jeong’s mum wants to move back to Korea,” she explains. “Family problems. He doesn’t want to go, but staying alone would cost him a lot of money and he doesn’t have a job anymore.”

Arthur’s head shaking increases in ferocity and his shoulder straighten out, posture resolving into something more adamant.

“Jeong wanted to try long distance?”

“Wanted to offer, at least,” Claudette agrees. “He might even get to stay, but I think…”

“Yeah.” Amicia isn’t completely sure she knows where Claudette was going with that thought (there are a lot of things she could have meant), but she does understand the tone. “Are you going to be alright?”

Claudette smiles, brighter than is necessary, a little fake around the edges. “I’ll miss him.”

A non-answer. That says it all.

Amicia gives her hand a squeeze. “Let us know if you need anything?”

“I will.”

\--

(Unlike the last time there was a noteworthy breakup, there’s no fallout from this one. Arthur mopes around for a few days, declares that he’ll never date again and actually sticks to it for the rest of the year. Otherwise, no one even notices.

Which is probably for the best.)

\--

“Ugh.”

Mélie slaps her task sheet onto the desk with a sharp crack; it’s thick, five or six pages printed back to back and stapled by the teacher. Prying the lid of her highlighter off with her teeth, she begins to aggressively identify important information: due date, paperwork, presentation information, that kind of thing.

“Not happy with this?” Amicia asks softly, watching their teacher circle the room out of the corner of her eyes.

“Wearable art?” she grumbles. “Why would you want to _wear_ art?”

Smiling, Amicia uses her pen to slash a line under their context for the task. “It’s _fashion_,” she sing-songs. “Walk, walk, fashion, baby.”

Mélie rolls her eyes. “It’s _stupid_. And we’re not allowed to use anything already-intended-for-wear? What kinda restriction is that?”

“One designed to irritate you, specifically.”

“Well, it’s working.” She huffs, glares at her paper for a moment longer before lifting her eyes to meet Amicia’s. “Thoughts?” Mélie’s eyes drop, just for a second, and then she’s turning back to her sheet and flipping open her sketchbook.

“Something simple would be best, I’d think,” Amicia murmurs, not sure where her capacity for speaking with volume has gone or why her ribs suddenly feel two sizes too small for her lungs. “Jewellery or a hat perhaps?”

Mélie hums, her pencil skips across the page aimlessly, scribbles a few little loops and then she stops. “Jewellery?”

“Yeah. Like maybe a necklace or something?”

She looks up from her own book and finds Mélie’s eyes filled with that breath-catching sparkle. “Brilliant. I’m gonna need your help though.”

“Of course.”

By the end of the lesson, Amicia has a few very silly ideas for a beanie scrawled across her paper, most made from impractical beanie-materials. Notably: plastic bags and feathers pulled from pillows. But Mélie, in a stroke of genius, has decided to attempt a chainmail necklace constructed – somehow, that’s to be determined – of the ring-pulls from the tops of soft drink cans.

“Oh…” Amicia breathes when she sees it. “We’re gonna have to drink _so_ much.”

Mélie’s eyes just keep glittering.

\--

“Yes, dad,” she says. “No, you heard me right.”

“But…” His eyes are wide, honestly terrified by her request, evidently. “Do you really need _twelve slabs_?”

“_Yes_. Twelve slabs, with twenty drinks in each is two hundred and forty,” she explains. “We counted. That’s the ideal number for experimenting and hopefully with some left over.”

“Experimenting on _what_?”

“Art.”

It turns out, slabs of soft drink cans may be bought quite cheaply with a bulk-buy discount online. That doesn’t stop Robert from being highly alarmed by the sheer volume of the stuff he ends up stacking in their basement.

“Happy birthday,” he tells her.

She gives him a flat look. “My birthday present better not be soft drink for _Mélie’s_ art project.”

Robert laughs from deep in his chest. “It’s not, don’t worry.”

(She doesn’t at first, but starts to when her parents don’t get her anything.)

\--

Speaking of her birthday, it happens to fall right after the Easter break which is equal parts fortunate and damn unlucky.

It’s a good thing because they get through every last one of those two hundred drink cans before the break goes back. Turns out, between the four of them, they only have to drink three or four a day over the sixteen-day break which doesn’t lead to anyone throwing up over it, but they are all fully sick of it by the end. Mélie has plenty of time to work with her absurd number of ring pulls before the assignment is due, however, and that’s what matters.

It’s not so great because it means she’s back at school for her birthday and therefore doesn’t have the luxury of doing her driving test whenever she likes.

She ends up having to skip a class a week after her eighteenth to fit it in and neither of her parents is particularly thrilled about that.

“You shouldn’t be missing lessons unless you have to,” Beatrice tells her, even though she’s presently driving Amicia away from school and to her test. “This isn’t something that couldn’t be done on a weekend.”

“The testers are booked solid on weekends until like, September,” she says, not for the first time. “And it’s _important_.”

“Why?”

She hesitates. “Well… So I can drive us to school and the park, I guess. So we don’t have to bother you all the time.”

Beatrice’s face goes smooth, it’s her poker face, the one she usually saves for interactions with folks she doesn’t like so much. “You’re not a bother, Amicia.”

“But…” She shrugs. “I just… I know Mélie and Arthur hate asking you to drive them around and Lucas is so worried about Laurentius still… It just seems like… It would be better to have an extra person driving, I suppose.”

Her mother places a hand on her knee, eyes on the road, lips tipped up in a smile. “You know we love your friends, right? They’re not a bother either.”

Amicia hunches her shoulder up under her ears. “Yeah. Well… I think we’d all just… feel better about it, you know?”

“Alright,” she laughs. Then, as they’re pulling into the centre, she asks, “What class are you missing, anyway?”

“Maths.”

“_Amicia_.”

“_Don’t_ worry so much. Lucas is taking notes for me to look over.”

She probably deserves the tongue cluck but at least Beatrice doesn’t turn them around and go back.

\--

The test itself isn’t half as scary as the scrawny beanpole who sits with her for the exam. He’s probably early twenties, has a scruffy beard and his dark hair is very likely unwashed. It’s not the best experience.

And neither is the knowledge that he maybe only passes her so he can ask her out.

She drops the, “Sorry, I have a boyfriend,” excuse and back pedals, clutching her paper provisional license as tightly as possible just in case he tries to take it back.

Beatrice is waiting in the parking lot when she gets back and doesn’t seem at all surprised that she’s passed. What surprises _Amicia_ though, is that her father is also present now and he’s leaning on a little mauve sedan with his arms folded and a cheeky smile scrawled across his face.

She slows her pace. “Aren’t you supposed to be writing?” she asks him.

He pushes away from the car. “_Supposed_ to be, yes. But I’m not.”

“Why?”

Robert slings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in for a tight hug. “I’m here to congratulate my daughter on passing her driver’s test.”

“You didn’t know I would.”

“Course I did. You’re brilliant.”

She rolls her eyes at him, leans away. “That a car you stole?”

He laughs at her, “No, honey. This is _your_ car that I _bought_.”

That… takes a moment to process. Two moments, three.

“You…” When it finally clicks in her brain, her eyes respond first; they widen dramatically (it’s probably comical) and her jaw swings open. “A _car_?”

This… This is why they didn’t give her anything on her birthday, then? Maybe?

Robert tucks her back in close to his chest. “Yes, honey. A _car_. That’s what you get.”

“For… for _what_?”

She feels something warm on her shoulder and rolls her head to the side to see her mother. “Because you’re a good daughter,” she murmurs. “And because even though you’re skipping maths right now, I know you’ll still do your best.” She leans down to kiss Amicia’s head. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have let you do this.”

Amicia rolls her eyes. “Thanks, guys.”

\--

She turns up right on the end of school bell and is standing under their usual tree waiting when first Mélie and then Arthur skip out after class. “So?” they both ask over the top of each other.

Amicia does her best to keep her face neutral. “Why don’t you walk with me?”

The twins exchange nervous glances but allow her to lead them across the grass to where she’d parked her little car. She tucks her hands into her pockets and beeps the brand new keys. In response, the lights flash.

“What…?” Arthur asks slowly.

Mélie is faster, her fingers snatch at Amicia’s elbow. “Your folks bought you a _car_?”

“They _what_?” Arthur demands. “You passed then?” His voice hits a pitch that might indicate screaming if not for the fact that he’s doing his best to keep it low. “Congrats!”

“Thanks,” she laughs, using her elbow to swing Mélie closer to her side. “Yeah, I passed. I can now drive you wherever you like.”

Arthur’s smile is wolfish and Mélie tugs her harder so she can talk directly into Amicia’s ear, breath tickling her throat. “You’re gonna regret that, princess.”

She shivers.

\--

They… maybe leave it later than they should. Based on the gossip and hallway chatter that Amicia picks up around the place, most everyone else has already bought dresses and ties and shoes and whatever for the formal. Yet here she is, less than six months to go, and still working on it.

Still waiting for Mélie to decide whether or not she’s going with.

(Lucas was easy enough to convince, really; and Arthur needed none at all, but _Mélie_… damn.)

“At least come dress shopping with me,” Amicia requests, grabbing the top of her swivel chair to stop Mélie’s spinning. “Please?”

She gets a long, pained groan.

Twirling the chair around so Mélie has to look at her – head leaned against the back of the chair, eyes squinting in half-hearted protest – Amicia tries again, “_Please_? I’ll buy lunch?”

“Ugh. Fine. We’re just gonna sit here and you’ll make me study, otherwise.”

She stands so abruptly that Amicia doesn’t have a chance to back out of the way and they end up nearly nose-to-nose. With a sharp intake of breath, she swallows, steps back, dazed a little by how intense Mélie’s crooked smile is so close up.

And her voice wobbles when she speaks, “Let’s… uh, let’s go then.”

If dress shopping itself is half as annoying as finding a place to park down the mall, then the day is completely doomed. They should’ve taken the bus.

But at least once that’s all done, they have a multitude of shops to choose from and Mélie trails her as she mosies in and out of stores, up and down aisles, trailing fingers along lace necklines and ruffled hems. She tries a few on, even, but never gets further than the mirrors in the change rooms.

“Look,” Mélie grumbles, head pointed at the ceiling but her eyes closed, one leg bobbing where it’s tilted over the other knee, “if you’re not even going to let me see these dresses then I don’t know why you brought me.”

“I’ll show you if you try one on,” Amicia calls from the change room.

At first, she thinks all she’ll get in response is a grunt, but then Mélie adds, “If you can show me one dress I like, then sure, I’ll try something on.”

With a tiny huff of a laugh, Amicia steps out of the room and stops, hands on hips, in front of her. “How’s this?”

Mélie has an eyebrow partly raised when she lolls her head forward, clearly ready to be disappointed, but when she opens her eyes every muscle on her face goes slack; her jaw saws open, her eyes go wide and her throat bobs. She even shifts forward with this abrupt little jerk, hands landing on her knees and curling into fists.

“Oh…” is all she says.

Amicia fiddles with the pleats and looks down. “That bad, huh?” She says it with a breathy laugh; it’s honestly the dress she’s liked most so far. All soft pinks and floral print, off the shoulder and this delightfully smooth fabric; it’s a fairly simple cut, no slits down the skirt or anything, but comes with a wide belt of pink slightly darker than the rest of the dress.

She smooths a hand down over her hip and takes a step back but Mélie launches to her feet before she can duck back into the change room.

“No! No… Wait.” Shuffling closer, Mélie takes her hand and lifts it. “Spin for me?”

And she laughs when she ducks under the arm, skirt flaring a little below her knees. “Not bad?”

“No.” Mélie’s voice is little more than an exhale. But her _smile_… it’s… it’s something else; soft and warm and tingling. “It’s beautiful, Amicia.”

When she gets back around and meets her eyes, Mélie’s face is pink like the dress. Amicia squeezes her hand. “Thanks.”

Mélie sucks in a deep breath, gaze finishing a sweep from the floor back to Amicia’s face. “Yeah. Any time.” Her eyes are all glazed and unfocused until she shakes her head and then her smile tilts back into that crooked one. “I suppose that means I have to try something on, yeah?”

Amicia laughs. “Yes please! Let me change first.”

In a truly shocking twist, Mélie is bad at finding dresses. She tries on at least four before they go for lunch and she complains about all of them.

“I just don’t like dresses, princess,” she drawls, tossing another one over the door. “What can I say?” Her head appears over the top; she must be standing on the little stool to manage it. “You reckon I could wear my pyjamas?”

“Sure, yeah. Buy some with a cute print on them.”

“Piss off.”

“I don’t think your current shirt is especially appropriate, Mélie.”

She ducks back below the door to try on another one. “No?”

“No! ‘Murder is a valid hobby’ is _not_ appropriate.” Mélie’s laughing though, and when she emerges in a blue striped dress Amicia forgets what she’d been going to say. “That’s…” A cough hits her hard in the lungs and she nearly chokes on her tongue. She has to swallow and try again. “Hm. You… That’s nice.”

Eye roll. It’s all about the eye roll. And the cheeky quirk to her lips. “Speechless, huh? That’s a good sign.” She does a little whirl, more ferocious than for display purposes, and stomps back into the change room. “Still not wearing a dress, princess.”

Amicia stares after her dumbly, too struck by… whatever that warmth is blooming in her chest, the funny fluttering in her stomach to notice at first that she’s gone. Her mouth has gone dry. It’s very important suddenly that they go get something to eat.

She doesn’t even realise until later that Mélie’s arguments have changed from flat out ‘not going’ to simply ‘not wearing a dress’. It’s progress.

\--

“Amicia.”

Her eyes roll back before she tips her head to see Lucas. “Hm?”

His face is drawn, lips pressed together into a thin pale line and the whites of his eyes are visible they’re so wide. “I need your car.”

Amicia slides her arms down, across the table so she’s slumped right forward. “The only reason you guys are friends with me still is for my car, huh?” she teases.

And normally, she could expect Lucas to respond to that with more teasing, perhaps a sassy comment or some hasty reassurance that’s not the case. But this time his face merely pinches tighter, brows creasing together over his eyes, giving him a wild look. So she sits up.

“You alright?”

He drops heavily into the seat across from her, fingers tight around his bag strap. “No, Amicia. We _graduate_ this year. I have to go to the city library.”

“Um… why? How do those two things go together?”

Tilting towards her, his eyes narrow just a smidge. “We’re _graduating_. Think of all the things we don’t know yet!”

It takes her a moment to manage anything more than blinking at him. “Lucas.” She reaches out a hand and takes his fingers gently. “We’re eighteen. You’re not even that yet. Relax. We have time.”

He hardens his grip on her hand. “We have less than _six months_ before we graduate. We can’t afford to relax.”

“Lucas. _Lucas_.” Amicia shifts her seat around so they’re closer and she can get to his other hand as well, pull him down a bit and stare him right in the eyes. “You don’t need to know everything before we graduate.”

“But… But, Amicia, what if there’s stuff on the exams we’re not prepared for?”

“They won’t give us exams we’re not prepared for, Lucas. They _won’t_. Then no one would pass and we’d all be trapped at high school and that would make all the teachers look bad.” She shakes his hands, flops them around like a dead fish. “We’ll be okay.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Lucas releases his crushing grip on her hand and exhales slowly, measured. He repeats this twice more, in and out, in and back out. “That didn’t help as much as you might’ve liked,” he admits. “But thank you.”

“I’ll keep reminding you of it, alright?”

His smile isn’t the usual bright one, but instead tainted by a smidge of anxiety and sadness. Lucas huffs another heavy breath. “Alright.”

She pats his hand once and goes back to reading over her history notes. After a moment, he joins her, pulling a sheaf of chemistry revision papers from his bag and settling them in front of him. Before he starts to read them though, he looks back up.

“Amicia?”

“Hm?”

“Can we still go to the library.”

“Sure, Lucas.”

\--

Arthur has his legs up on the empty chair across the aisle from him (it usually has a student in it, but he’s not here today, probably off sick) when one of Cecile’s friends sticks her head around the doorway. She blinks at them, eyes scanning the room but Amicia’s attention is drawn away from her by Lucas indicating something in his book so she misses whatever happens right after that.

“This problem makes no sense,” Lucas says. “Is there a typo in the textbook or have I made a mistake in my working out?”

Running her eyes over the solution as he’s scribbled it out, flicking between that and the question in his book. “I don’t know, Lucas,” she says, “You’re better at maths than me.”

“Something’s not right here.” He drops his head to the desk. “I don’t know. The answer can’t be over two thousand, surely.”

“Maybe.” When she twists to ask Arthur (who is better at numbers than he likes to advertise) she’s interrupted by Friend-Of-Cecile’s slamming both her palms onto his table so hard his books jump.

“You.” The girl’s voice is loud, obnoxious, and cold. “Dubois. What did you do?”

“Me?” In contrast, Arthur’s voice is the sort of puberty-induced squeal she hasn’t heard in about three years. “What?”

“Miss Roussel,” their teacher snaps. “What are you doing?”

Roussel (Amicia doesn’t know her first name), throws a quivering finger out at Arthur blindly, it nearly whacking him in the nose. “He did something.”

“What kind of something?” The teacher asks, eyes darting between them.

“I don’t know.” Roussel smacks her palm on the table again.

“_Stop_ with the theatrics, Miss Roussel,” the teacher sighs. “Just say it before I summon a member of on-call.”

There’s a beat of quite in which Roussel sucks in a great big breath and makes a show of composing herself. “I went into the bathroom right at the end of break,” she explains, her tone slow and simple as if she were speaking to small children. “And I found Pala and Cecile in there. Cici was crying. Neither Pala nor I could make out much of what she was saying, but I _swear_ Arthur’s name was mentioned. So, he _must_ have done something.”

The teacher, Amicia (wide-eyed since Arthur had been with them at break) and Lucas (problem forgotten), all swivel to look at him.

“Huh? I did… _wait what_?”

Roussel drops her palms flat against his table and leans over him so he has to tip his chair back on two legs or end up with her nose smooshed against his. “You made Cici _cry_. In the girls’ _toilets_.”

“_Dude_,” he breathes. “I haven’t even _seen_ Cici at all this week; and I haven’t spoken directly to her in like… _months_.”

This time when she bangs her hands, Lucas jumps; he’s leaning away from her too even though she’s not really close to him at all.

“Miss Roussel,” the teacher sighs. “Can you please leave my room? I’m sure this can be dealt with at a later – and more convenient – time.”

She rips her gaze from Arthur to fix the teacher with this squinty eyed look as if staring him down will make it more likely to ensure some sort of appropriate punishment (whatever she deems that to be) is handed out. Their teacher – a normally quite unflappable fellow – takes a half-step back. Taking that as some sort of promise, Roussel swings her glare back to Arthur for a brief moment, nods her head sharply, and spins on her heel, storming from the room.

With a heavy sigh and a press of his fingers to his temple, the teacher looks down at them. “Mister Dubois,” he huffs. “Did you say or do anything that, to your knowledge, would have caused Miss Cloutier to _cry_?”

“No! Sir.”

“Sir?” Amicia pauses, waits until he looks at her, allows her to speak. “Arthur was with us all through break? I don’t see how he could have said something.”

“Unless he said it to her before break,” Lucas adds. “But that seems sort of nasty, not like Arthur.”

The teacher just sighs again and heads back to the front of the room. “Thankfully, it’s not to do with maths, and so is completely irrelevant to my lesson. Please, continue with your worksheets.”

Exchanging a glance between the three of them, Arthur’s face is white with worry but Lucas just looks about as baffled as Amicia feels.

\--

Context is bestowed upon them at lunch: Pala comes stomping over to them, shoulder checks Mélie out of the way and approaches them with such speed and violence that Arthur has no choice but to back away from her until she’s got him cornered by the wall. And the only thing that stops her from grabbing him by the lapels is Amicia throwing her arm out and getting in her way.

“Hey,” she snaps, using her arm to bump Pala a bit further back. “No need for that.”

“What did you say to Cici,” Pala demands, voice about as frigid as it’s possible to get without turning into actual ice.

“I didn’t say _anything_,” he squeaks.

“Don’t talk to her,” Amicia grumbles. “She’s just gonna start something.”

“_He_ started it,” she hisses.

Mélie brackets Pala on the other side. “He didn’t start _anything_. Now back off.”

Lucas lays a gentle hand on Pala’s shoulder. “Can we maybe take this down a notch before someone important gets involved and we all end up with detention?”

Pala continues to glare for a moment and then she takes a step back. “Fine.” She folds her arms, rocks back onto her heels, chin tilted up. “What did you say to Cici?”

“_Nothing_,” he blurts. “The first I heard about it was in maths before.”

“He was with _us_,” Mélie adds.

Pala’s face scrunches up, all wrinkled nose and squinted eyes, clear disbelief. “I find that unlikely.”

“Well…” Mélie doesn’t get another heated word out of her mouth before they’re interrupted.

“It’s not his fault, Pala.”

To begin with, Amicia isn’t sure where that voice came from, and from the blinking, dumbfounded looks on all her friends’ faces, she’s not alone. But then they all, including Pala, turn as one.

Lucien has stopped not far off, just outside their huddle, chin tipped down to his chest and hands in the pockets of his trousers.

“What?” The first to regain her voice, Pala asks her single word in a monotone.

“Arthur… It wasn’t him.”

“I heard you.” Having heard him though, doesn’t mean she’s willing to back away any further, she remains within Arthur’s personal space, hands fisted at her sides ready to tear his throat out, probably. “Explain.”

“I…” His eyes dart across each of them in turn, linger longest on Amicia, and his lips turn down sharply at the corners when they land on her. When he looks away, it’s with a quick tilt of his head, lifting his eyes to the roof of the building across the quad. “We broke up.”

And _that_ is enough to get Pala to step back. Her shoulders slump and she rocks off the balls of her feet, swaying unevenly. Almost it looks like she’s about to fall or maybe sit down heavily. Except she has nowhere to go except the _ground_ and that’s not good enough for her, surely.

“You… You broke up with Cici?”

He hunches his shoulders and lets them fall with a soft exhale. “Yeah. This morning at break.”

Pala backs away from _him_ a pace or two this time. “But… _why_?”

“She just…” Rubbing at the back of his neck, he doesn’t look any of them in the eyes. “Just… We did, okay?”

Amicia clenches her hand into the front of Arthur’s coat and draws him back, allowing Mélie – who has slipped fingers into her hand – to tug them off in a little chain. Needing no prompting at all, Lucas has already wandered off, twists at the waist to watch them catch him up. So they leave Pala standing there slack jawed and Lucien staring guiltily after them and that’s that.

No one else for the rest of the day accuses Arthur of having done something awful, but Lucien has to shuffle around on glass, eyes on the ground, avoiding looking anyone in the eye and not speaking if he can help it. It’s funny how the tables turn. Cecile’s cronies pick on him now and as long as none of them do anything to draw attention or remind people how this whole mess started, then they don’t have anything to worry about.

Somehow, Arthur finds it in himself to feel sorry for Lucien though.

“Like…” he grumbles as Amicia picks them up for school the next morning. “It wasn’t fair when it was us, you know? So it’s still not fair when it’s him.”

“What does that mean?” Lucas asks.

“I…” Arthur makes this high-pitched whine in the back of his throat. “Look, it just wasn’t cool when Cici and her evil minions treated us like we had the plague, and now they’re doing the same thing to Lucien just because he didn’t like being treated as her trophy. I mean, I get where the dude’s coming from. It’s not… It’s not cool.”

Mélie slides into the front seat and shoots Amicia a smile so bright she forgets to pull out from the curb for a second. “He means that he wants to do something crazy like last time and get folks talking about something other than this new break up drama.”

In the rear-view mirror, Amicia gets a first-class view of Lucas’ eyes going wider than saucers. “Oh no. Please tell me you’re not going to poison anyone again?”

Both twins start laughing, but it’s not reassuring in the least. “No,” Arthur eventually wheezes. “No, I’m not going to poison anyone. I _wish_ there was something I could do, but honestly staying out of it is probably the best bet.”

“You mean… Not try and help him at all?”

Arthur shrugs. “Not much we can do anyway.” He sways across the back seat into Lucas’ space to bump their shoulders together. “Besides, as you’re _so_ fond of reminding us on a near-hourly basis, we only have like three months left of school anyway. What’s the point? Soon we’ll all be moving on and in six months no one will remember any of it.”

Saying that was just… all around a horrible, terrible idea. Once again, Lucas’ eyes shoot wide, only this time it’s not fear that tightens his face, but anxiety.

“Thank you for reminding him of that, Arthur,” Mélie grumbles. “Now Amicia and I have to sit through his fidgeting in literature first thing this morning.”

“Breathe, Lucas,” Amicia tells him softly. “Just breathe. We’re going to be _fine_.”

“We’re going to be fine,” he repeats, monotone, around a deep breath. “Alright.”

He probably doesn’t believe a word of it, but at least he’s trying.

\--

Hissing sharply, Mélie tosses the glue gun onto the table with a clatter and stuffs her finger in her mouth. “Bitch.”

“Want me to get an ice pack?”

Amicia is already half way out of her chair but Mélie shakes her head, mumbles a, “Nah,” around the finger. She slips it from her mouth with a wet ‘pop’ and squints at the little red mark searing along the side of the digit.

For some reason she still hasn’t been able to decipher, Amicia watches the entire motion with a weird sloshing feeling in her chest, unable to tear her eyes away. Working her mouth requires a bit of time before words are a thing she can manage. “Uh… you sure? How bad is it?”

“More annoying than anything. I’ll be fine.” She picks up the glue again and snaps a ring pull through the loop of another, drops a dab of clear adhesive at the join and holds it together. Beneath her fingers the rest of her intricate network of ring pulls rattles as it shifts and she rests her wrist in a more comfortable position while it dries. She tips her chin at Amicia. “How’s yours doing?”

Turning the hessian over in her fingers, she holds it up to Mélie briefly. Then she takes her needle to the edge and stabs it through in preparation for the stuffing and, naturally, she impales herself with the point. “Ow,” she snaps, “fuck.”

Mélie explodes with laughter. “Oh, princess. Mind your _language_.”

When she looks up, catches the twinkle in Mélie’s eyes and feels that warmth spread wider through her chest, lower, down through her intestines, probably, she hesitates. But she laughs too. “I learned it from you.”

“Is it holding together?”

“You mean are my pathetic sewing skills serving well enough? Yeah. They seem to be.” She lifts an eyebrow but not her gaze, focusing on sliding in some more of the highly inappropriate non-clothing-approved foam beans she’d strung together with plastic wire earlier. “May I assume your interest is because you want to wear it?”

A snort is all the response she really needs. But of course, Mélie’s never been good at just leaving things, so she adds, “Only if you wear mine.”

“Sure,” she says without skipping a beat (or really thinking through what she’s saying, please see:), “I’ll wear it to prom.”

Once more, the glue gun squirts more goo out than is strictly necessary and it dribbles over Mélie’s hand, leading to more swearing and hissing and furious throwing of things that shouldn’t be thrown. “You… _fuck_… you _what_?”

“Well, why not? It’s wearable art.”

“Please, do _not_ wear it to prom. Thanks though.”

She shrugs. “Your loss.”

It takes them just a little over an hour to put the final, finishing touches on their wearable art projects. In Mélie’s case, this involves more hot gluing and some fake – if very pretty – jewels to make the whole necklace look entirely more opulent than any almost-garbage necklace has any right to be. And in Amicia’s case, it means sewing punk-adjacent patches all over her beanie to give it an extra layer of warmth and also to hide some of her… less-than-stellar stitching.

The first thing she does once that last patch has been secured properly (duh) is fold it around Mélie’s ears. It rustles in a way actual beanies shouldn’t and probably isn’t as comfortable to wear either, despite the layer of soft felt she sewed in as lining. What’s the real surprise is how Mélie doesn’t look half as ridiculous in it as she should, either.

She lifts a hand to adjust the edge over one ear and tuck some stray hair up underneath it before offering Amicia her crooked smile. (Again, that weird bubbling thing boils a little harder. Why her stomach has suddenly decided to take up being a cauldron as a side-job is beyond her.) “You know… it’s actually not super uncomfortable.”

“Thanks. Real vote of confidence.”

In response though, as she should’ve expected, Mélie lifts her necklace and jangles it. “Your turn.”

Despite her finely-crafted eye roll, Amicia turns as instructed and pulls her braid over her shoulder so Mélie can fasten the clasp. What she _doesn’t_ expect at _all_ is how goosebumps rise across her shoulders, her arms, down her spine when Mélie’s fingers brush the skin at her collar. She doesn’t expect a skip to her heartbeat or breathing, or the bubbles in her belly to leap higher, spurred by something she can’t understand. Nor does she expect the way her whole brain sort of fizzles into static and emptiness when she turns back around so Mélie can see her work in action.

And there’s… well, there’s sure _something_ about that, too. Something about Mélie inspecting her handiwork… she can’t put her finger on it, but it’s _there_ and it’s so _weird_ this curdling in her gut and the tightness in her throat and the _thudding_ of her heart.

She shakes her head. “How does it look?” Her voice sounds distant to her ears.

“It looks exactly like a necklace should,” Mélie tells her decisively. “Which means unless our teacher is feeling like a proper bitch, I should pass.”

“Of _course_ you’ll pass.”

Mélie rolls her eyes, cants her head to the side and pats the beanie. “Yeah? I think we’re both gonna do just fine.” She does push it up from the back of her skull and slide it off though. “But it’s sorta hot? And a little scratchy.”

“I _know_,” she sighs. “The downsides to working with hessian.”

“Well yeah.” Her eyes light up not ten seconds later. “I wanna see Arthur wear it.”

“He’ll probably love it.”

Clapping her hands together, Mélie does this funny little bounce and combines it with a cackle that very nearly counts as evil. “Oh, I know he will. And if we say that part of our assessment is proving that these are actually wearable, man, he’s gonna model it for us.”

“He’ll make a fool of himself.”

Her smile widens into something that looks just like Arthur’s when he’s plotting: sharp points and glinting edges. “And it will be _excellent_.”

\--

Arthur, true to his nature, wears _both_.

He bursts through the door to the art room, hands on hips superhero style, chest puffed up, and strides jauntily into the room, clearly doing his best impression of a catwalk strut. Their teacher, a man who is not easily impressed by anything, looks up and barely blinks.

“Get back to class, Mister Dubois,” he sighs. “But leave the artworks, thank you.”

A similar warm liquid feeling floods through her chest, aimed entirely at Arthur and the pose plus heel-turn he does – end of catwalk spin – when he reaches the teacher’s desk. He places both the beanie and necklace on their desks, winks theatrically, and continues his peacock march back out the door before offering them a mocking half bow to the soundtrack of more exasperated teacher-sighing and then he’s gone. The expansive light in her chest is _similar_ to the one that’s so often a response to seemingly any (even mundane) interaction she has with Mélie, but they’re not quite the same.

Sort of but almost not quite precisely unlike. Whatever.

Amicia spends exactly zero time worrying over it. This feeling in her chest? It’s there for all of her friends, in slightly different flavours and intensities, so she’s not at a complete loss for a name. She knows what it is: love. She loves her friends. All of them, in all their ridiculousness.

Loves Arthur’s dramatic flair. Loves Lucas and his quiet anxiety induced babbling. Loves Mélie and her cheeky sass. Loves all of them.

So she spends no time worrying about _why_ they’re all a little different flavours of this warm fondness that expands so abruptly and profoundly on occasion that she can’t breathe for it. All her friends are different, so clearly the fondness should be different too.

(She spends _some_ time thinking about it.

But the worrying, that’s the thing she doesn’t do.

What’s to worry about?)

They pass their art assessment and it’s not until Amicia is wrapped up in a trembling full-body hug that she truly grasps how worried Mélie was that they wouldn’t do well. And so she doesn’t – emphatically _doesn’t_ – worry at all why that warm fondness chooses the moment her hands land softly on Mélie’s lower back to surge through her.

It’s because she loves her friends.

Duh.

\--

Before prom, before final grades come back, before the end of the year, before any of them truly has an inkling where they’ll be in three months, what universities they’ll be attending, Amicia crams all three of her stupid, lovable friends into her car and drives them around to various campuses.

“It’s a field trip,” is what she tells them.

“It’s absurd,” is Arthur’s well-meaning retort. “What if we all end up choosing different locations?”

The chewing-nails motion Lucas is making in the back seat takes on this cartoonish quality, she can just about hear the chainsaw sound effect. “What if it’s too expensive,” he adds.

At the next red light, she twist fully around, one arm leaning on the back of her chair so she can fix him with an unfiltered attempt at imparting something solid and confident in him. “We are all going to get multiple offers back,” she says, voice as steady as she can manage. “And this way, we’ll know whether to go for student housing or something off-campus.”

Lucas does not stop his nail-biting. But Mélie throws out with a sigh, “God. Not on-campus, _please_. I do not want to be sharing a room with some random sorority wannabe planning to sleep her way through the entire unwashed population of all those frat-bros.” And she shudders to emphasise her point.

Which is fine and good except that when Amicia turns back to keep driving (and stop illegally interacting with her passengers) she’s suddenly launched into a scenario where that’s exactly what happens to them. And then she’s watching a factory line of near-identical square-jawed boys tromp in and out a doorway while some girl holds her and Mélie in chains and crosses off a tick list with a shrill nails-on-chalkboard voice. She shudders too.

“On-campus is a big no then,” Amicia mumbles. “But let’s at least make the most of it? Could be a nice day out if nothing else.”

She receives a chorus of grumbles in response to her perfectly reasonable request, and it’s not until she pulls into the visitors’ lot at the closest local university that any of them perk up. Their obvious first stop is Bordeaux University and it doesn’t disappoint. The campus is pristine, all the old buildings taken care of meticulously, gardens are clearly tended to with great attention and the main courtyard is – especially at this time of year, preparing for the summer when new students will be enrolling – filled with coffee carts and chatter.

Lucas takes one look up at the giant façade and his shoulders slump. “Oh.” Mélie shuffles to a stop beside him as he tips his head back, shades his eyes against the sun. “I feel so… small.”

“Still worried about not knowing enough?” Arthur teases.

“Yes,” Lucas admits. “But… this is where answers are kept, if they’re anywhere.” Tone breathy and slightly awed, they all smile at him.

“Come on.” Amicia loops her arm through his elbow. “Let’s have a look around.”

Since they’re not attendees of the university, most of the buildings are closed to them (especially housing), but none of that stops them from poking their heads in everywhere they can.

“This building is so new,” Arthur mumbles, face nearly pressed to the glass window he’s peering through at one of the campus housing facilities. “I bet they have great amenities.”

Mélie elbows his ribs and when he looks around at her, squawking, she nods at a nearby sign. “They have a rec centre.”

No doubt she immediately regrets saying that when a slow, pointed smile takes over Arthur’s whole face and he says, “I bet the tennis girls here are _super_ hot.”

Face reddening at a remarkable rate, Mélie gives him a solid shove into the window and stalks off. She doesn’t get far before Lucas is matching her speed, taking her elbow and yammering to her about something that she and Arthur don’t catch until he’s directed them around the last of campus housing to the science side of the grounds.

He slips into the library faster than the guy at the door can blink and the rest of them scurry after him, ignoring the, “IDs?” that follows.

“Lucas,” Amicia hisses into the almost unnatural silence of the building. “Lucas. We’ll get in trouble.”

“Relax, princess. Let him have fun.”

Maybe he does have fun, sweeping up and down the aisles, running deft fingertips along spines, eyes bright as he bounces onto his toes to see the top shelves better. Somehow, playing hide-and-seek with him in this messy labyrinth of heavy scientific tomes and journals isn’t quite as much fun, however. And it’s less so when the door-guy (some sort of vicious library custodian by the frown lines on his face) catches them.

“If you’re not here to borrow books, you should leave,” he grumbles, directing a truly ferocious glower at each of them in turn.

“Can we borrow books if we don’t have ID cards?” Arthur enquires with this polite seeming tone that Amicia knows can only bring trouble.

Custodian Man frowns all the harder. “Of course not. Why would you come to the library without your IDs?”

“Drat.” Arthur taps his chin. “We can’t even borrow them if we flirt with you?”

This time, the guy splutters, face turning a delightful shade of crimson, a colour to make Mélie proud. “What… I… _no_!”

“Pity.”

Before he can dig them a deeper hole, Amicia ushers them both away and as soon as she’s found Lucas, they corral him, shepherding him from the building. He complains as mightily as he can without violating the silent sanctity of the space, but at the door, when the red-faced custodian glowers at them some more, he stops his whining and keeps up with Amicia’s rather brisk pace with no further protestations.

“They have an _amazing_ greenhouse,” he says, setting off down the side of the library. “You can see it from the back windows. I wonder what kinds of things they’re doing in there…”

Luckily, the twins seem to have realised that an unchecked and dreamy Lucas is about as likely to get them all arrested for trespassing as either of them in the middle of a diabolic scheme, so they each take one of Lucas’ arms and point him away from anything that might catch his fancy.

“How about we stop at that Thai place and then have a picnic in the campus park?” Mélie asks him. “Sounds better than spending the evening in the clink waiting for Amicia’s dad to come free us.”

Lucas’ face drains of colour. “Can… can we be arrested for looking at…”

“Let’s not find out, man,” Arthur decides.

Frankly, Amicia doesn’t think she’s ever loved either of the twins more than in that exact moment. She might just burst from it all, actually.

Sprawled out on the grass, shoulder by Arthur’s knee, Lucas on her other side, Mélie’s head cushioned on her stomach, carding her fingers slowly through her friend’s hair, this might just be one of the best lunch times she’s ever had. It’s warm in the sun, but not _hot_ and there are enough clouds in the sky – big marshmallow things – that she doesn’t have to squint too hard against the sun.

If every day for the rest of her life was even a bit like this, Amicia thinks maybe she’ll die happy.

And when Mélie asks, “Can we go to École-de-Condé?” she hums an affirmative but makes no effort to stand. Not yet.

They lay there until the sun hits its peak and they’re not feeling quite so full, drowsy after food, then Mélie rolls to one side, meets Amicia’s gaze and smiles. The sun pales in comparison to the brilliant light that tumbles through her at the twinkle in Mélie’s eyes.

“Alright,” Amicia sighs. “Let’s go then.”

Relatively, the drive across the river to the university is quite short. They could probably find a little apartment to live in between the two, even, to make it less of a commute.

There’s significantly less green at this campus (funny, for an arts’ school she would’ve expected more gardening) and the buildings are all these modern square shapes, white and glass and polished steel. Like at the other campus, this one has a lot of places they can’t go because they’re not enrolled, but that doesn’t stop them from climbing the steps to the top of one exterior landing and peering over the peaked roofs at the river.

Mélie’s sharp eyes pick out signage too that takes them to a free-to-the-public showroom filled with student work. They stand shoulder to shoulder, heads tilted at near the same precise angle, as they inspect a series of oil paintings done all different degrees of not-vertical. The effect is impressive; gives a real sense of perspective to the buildings in the art, but also some little amount of vertigo from staring too closely.

“You students here?”

Mélie is the only one of them to turn at first. “Hopefully,” is her cautious reply. “Who are you?”

When Amicia looks around, she finds a tall guy with brown hair in a bun and a week old beard standing behind them, hands thrust into the pockets of his stupidly skinny jeans. “I painted those,” he replies, tipping his head at the angled canvases.

“Huh.” Mélie turns back, doesn’t sound impressed. “Good lighting.”

Because Amicia is still watching him, a sense of unease and dislike prickling under her ears, she sees his smile spread. “That’s what my lecturer said, too.” She slips her hand out until she finds Mélie’s wrist. Brushing down the arm, she’s met by Mélie’s already spread fingers, waiting for her to wind them with hers. The dislike eases slightly.

“I don’t like this part,” Lucas says abruptly, throwing a hand towards the end canvas. “It’s messy.”

The guy frowns a bit, eyes shifting briefly from Mélie to Lucas and then back, going further to look at Amicia. He doesn’t comment.

He doesn’t comment and they don’t linger longer.

Mélie tugs her by their joined hands from the gallery and the boys follow without more prompting necessary. “If all the guys here are like that,” Mélie whispers, tipping her head back to look at the sky, “I wouldn’t have to worry about dating them even if I was into guys.”

After a beat, Amicia and Arthur both laugh. He drops an elbow onto his sister’s shoulder. “Thank _god_ for that, too, because if you introduced me to a dude like that bozo as your boyfriend? Man. I’d have to punch him.”

“He seemed pretentious,” Lucas adds. “Or was that just me?”

“Not just you,” Amicia agrees. “I believe the term for that is ‘art snob’, yes?”

“Yeah. Or, more colloquially, a jerk,” Mélie finishes. Then her brows drop and her hand slips from Amicia’s. It leaves her with this sense of loss that she doesn’t get a chance to dwell on because Mélie’s turning on her brother and demanding, “Hey, what makes you think you get to judge _anyone_ I date, huh? You dated Cecile for over a _year_.”

“Uh,” he drawls. “First of all, ouch. And second, if you _ever_ date someone, know that I’m gonna judge the _hell_ out of her. Man, what kind of standards do you _have_?”

“Higher than yours, that’s for sure.”

She gives him a shove, sends him stumbling into the railing and, when he recovers, he shoves her back. The only reason she doesn’t fall is that Amicia raises her hands to catch her, ends with one hand on Mélie’s waist.

“Let’s go before one of you pushes the other from a fourth storey balcony and leave me and Amicia as witnesses to manslaughter,” Lucas says, taking Arthur by the elbow to stop him from advancing further.

“Let’s,” she agrees, sighing. (Whether the sigh is for the twins or specifically because Mélie takes a half-step away from her, she doesn’t spare the brain power to identify.)

“Sure. But let’s also stop for ice cream,” Arthur requests.

“You guys only love my car, huh?”

“Nonsense,” Arthur sings, slinging an arm around her neck now. “We love you as well, Amicia. Don’t we?”

“Yep,” Mélie concurs, voice and eyes filled with something Amicia can’t name. “We sure do.”

\--

Obnoxious squealing before noon is the sort of thing that requires someone to hack into the universe’s deep code to delete it. Feet on the metal legs, Amicia swivels the chair and it squeaks, high pitched and slow and grinding. Even though he’s facing away from her, she imagines she can see Lucas’ jaw clench, his teeth grinding, foot twitching.

“Please stop.”

“Do you have oil?”

“Laurentius might.”

“Want me to get some?”

“No.” He pauses and she edges the chair around a little. Lucas _visibly_ winces. “Please, _stop_.”

With a breathy laugh, she slides off the seat and onto the floor to squish up beside him, their knees bumping together. “You found one?”

He shakes his head, hums. “No. Where did you find yours?”

“Went into the mall.”

Lucas huffs. “You wanna go back?”

“Not this late in the day,” she laughs. “The prom is in like… two weeks. Just buy a pair of black shoes.”

“But I want them to be something I can wear again in future.”

“Get a cheap pair online.”

“That’s a _waste_.”

She shrugs. “It’s not a waste to buy things for a purpose.”

“I would still like to be able to reuse them,” he says, absently scrolling through a new window filled of shoes. Shiny shoes with plastic laces and matte shoes with laces done in fancy patterns and wingtips in various monochrome combinations. “Is Mélie coming?”

Amicia says, “Uh,” and draws the sound out in the manner of anyone trying to convey some measure of stupidity. “I’m honestly not sure. Why?”

“I feel like if she’s buying fancy shoes just for this,” he begins, scrolling further with a swift flick, “then I should too, otherwise I might just buy some nice black ones to wear again later.”

“Why is Mélie your yardstick for this?”

He hunches one shoulder, clicks on a pair of shoes, backs out, clicks another. “She didn’t want to come. But if she puts effort in then I should too.”

She hums a response and flops backwards onto his floor, stares up at the ceiling where the outlines of glow-in-the-dark stars are still visible from when he was younger. “Fair enough. I still think you could just buy a simple pair for this.”

“I’ll think about it.”

They lapse into silence and her eyes slide closed, content to be lulled by the soft clicking of his scroll wheel. But then he asks, “Have you guys talked about moving after we graduate?”

“Nn, yes. My parents are on board.”

“What about their dad?”

“Don’t think they’re gonna ask his permission, to be honest.”

All the response she gets to that for a long moment is a half-hearted grunt. “Have you found a place?”

“We’ve got two options, yeah, why?”

“I think…” More quiet clicking. “I think I’m going to stay here. It’s only a forty minute train ride to the campus and I don’t want to leave grandpa alone.” He brightens just a bit. “Plus, I’ll have access to a _whole_ garden rather than just whatever the on-campus provisions are.”

Amicia opens her eyes again, uses a bare foot to toe at his leg until he looks down at her. “You sure?”

Lucas sucks in a mighty lungful of air and on the exhale sighs, “Yeah. Maybe just for the first year and we’ll see how it goes. But… he doesn’t have anyone else.”

“Alright. You can come visit any time though, you know that, right? And we’ll visit you, too.”

A bright smile takes over his face, a relieved slump dropping his shoulders. “Yeah. I know.”

“Good. We love you, Lucas. Won’t be the same without you.”

“You’ll manage. Three’s a crowd anyway.” He turns back to his laptop. “Four must be massively overwhelming.”

She laughs. “Oh, that’s not true.”

“When are you going to look at the rooms?”

“This weekend. Do you want to come with us?”

He thinks, tapping away. From this angle she can’t see what he’s doing but hopefully he’s decided to buy a pair of something. It’ll take nearly a week, probably, for them to arrive anyway; cutting it _real_ close. “Sure. If you don’t mind?”

“Your opinion is valued.”

“That sounds like a business pitch.”

“That’s me: corporate Amicia.”

His smile is this soft, blurry thing – filled with all the fondness that consumes her lungs on the regular, radiating it – when he turns it on her. “We should start games night,” he suggests, leaning back on his palms.

Something flickers behind her ribs, sparks brightly and leaps through her until she’s sure her eyes are shining with the same fondness as his. “That sounds like a _great_ idea.”

\--

“It’s some sort of _thing_ with these places, huh?” Mélie says, toneless, crinkling the paper between restless fingers. “No pets, no smoking, no parties, no extra residents. What’s that even mean?”

“It’s to prevent safety hazards,” Lucas supplies. “Too many bodies are hard to manage.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, but how do they define _extra_ residents?”

He pulls a face, mouth turned down sharply as he shrugs. “Use logic? Don’t cram six people to a bed?”

And Mélie’s whole face scrunches up too. “Two people per room. Got it.”

“But,” Arthur puts in, his body angled backwards, head tilted up, hand over his eyes against the sun, “the real question is: does the building meet basic hygiene requirements?”

Coughs splutter from Lucas, loud and unexpected. “Huh?” he gasps.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m not living in a dump like that last place, okay? If I wanted to live somewhere with lousy management and mould or limescale or whatever, I would’ve just signed up for on-campus housing.” With that, he sets off towards the entrance, spins on one foot to walk backwards the last little way and call, “Come on!”

“He has a point,” Mélie huffs, the first to step after him. “Let’s get this looked at.”

“What happens if this place isn’t any good?” Lucas asks as they follow. “Do you have other options?”

“Not really,” she admits, smiling at Mélie who holds the door for them. “But I’m sure we’d find something.”

“We could always just not move,” Mélie offers, falling in behind Amicia. “Less trouble.”

She turns as best she can in the stairwell to give her a Look™ she hopes conveys her distaste and absolute rejection of that concept. “Um. No.”

It’s worth it. When they hit the landing Mélie bumps into her shoulder and her smile is a warm blanket on a rainy evening, so filled with _something_ that leaps, static, from where their arms brush and quivers through her whole body turning her veins all to tingling electric currents. “Thanks,” Mélie whispers and that makes it worse.

“Yeah,” she breathes, lost in the glitter of Mélie’s eyes, in the quirk of her lips, the slow thud of her heart as it stutters over a few beats. “Of course.”

Amicia’s gaze bounces around her face, unsure where to look or why she’s so caught by the moment, right up until Arthur shoots an elbow into her back. “Oi. Let’s go.”

Ripping her eyes away, she finds Arthur giving her a funny, incomprehensible look bracketed by a confusedly frowning Lucas and a slender woman in maybe her mid-fifties with a jangle of keys who must be the one showing them the apartment. Amicia blinks at them. “Yeah? We’re here.”

The woman’s keys jingle as she lifts them. “I’m Dianne.”

“The building owner,” Amicia remembers. “Nice to meet you. Amicia.”

She smiles. “It was your parents who I spoke to, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. We’re hoping to get a place closer to campus for next year.”

Dianne fiddles until she finds the key she’s looking for and twists it in the lock. “I have a couple of other kids here. As long as you keep it clean, don’t throw parties and pay the bills on time, I’m fairly lenient.” She holds the door and ushers them all through.

Pausing on her way past, the last through the door, Mélie asks, “But no pets, right?”

“Right,” Dianne laughs. “My husband does a lot of the handiwork around the place himself and he’s allergic to all kinds of furred animals. Our kids hate it.”

Mélie just shrugs. “That’s valid.”

The apartment is small, as advertised, the kitchenette and lounge are the same space, divided by a tiny island counter. A television larger than should probably be in such a little space hangs off the wall, and there’s one long L-shaped sofa that could probably fit all four of them on it if they squished. From tiles to paint, cupboards to appliances, everything is shades of white and chrome. Even the sofa is a soft grey and so is the rug it sits on.

Firstly, Arthur sticks his head into the fridge (which is unsurprisingly empty) and then he pokes through cupboards. “Oh,” he says, voice muffled by the wood, “You supply kitchen appliances?” And he comes up with a toaster to demonstrate.

“Yes,” Dianne replies. “But if it breaks you buy a new one. Keep them in good order, please.”

He shrugs, puts it back. “Honestly, I thought we’d have to go shopping for that kinda stuff. Hey! There’s cutlery!” He hips the drawer closed. “Neat.”

Then he’s off to perform a bathroom litmus test.

“How many bedrooms?” Lucas asks.

“Two, and one bathroom plus a work room.”

The three of them exchanges glances and then go looking for the bedrooms. They’re about the same size; feature beds and inset wardrobes, a pair of chests of drawers and, when Amicia swings one door open, she finds coat hangers. The inside of one wardrobe door is a mirror and there’s a great big window on one side, it even has a decent view of the street rather than an alley or brick wall or something.

Mélie, predictably, flops onto the mattress. “Comfy.” She pats the space beside her. “Come on, test it out.”

Lucas doesn’t move, he knows she’s not talking to him. But Amicia still feels the need to roll her eyes as she sinks down slowly beside her.

“How many of you are going to be living here?” Dianne asks.

She and Mélie look to Lucas and he replies, “Three. I’m not staying.”

“Is that alright?” Amicia wonders, lifting a finger to indicate Mélie. “We’re going to share if it is.” She gives Mélie a nudge. “Bed’s big enough, right?”

“Long as you don’t snore, princess, we’ll be fine.”

Dianne hesitates before she says, “Yes… I think that’s fine. You’re not…”

“Arthur is my brother,” Mélie interjects before Dianne can finish. “He’s a loser but if I get sick of Amicia I’ll stay with him.”

“Make him sleep on the floor,” Amicia suggests and gets a broad grin in response.

“I heard that!” Arthur calls. “You two bunk together and leave me to my space.” He pokes his head into the room and gives it a once over. “You’re the one who said two rooms would be cheaper on a university budget.”

He disappears again and Amicia, around laughter, explains, “We’ve all been friends for years. This is gonna be like an extended sleep over. We can throw a bed into the work room if we have to, as well.”

Lucas’ eyes go wide. “Please,” he exhales. “Please tell me you’re not going to live on a diet of ice cream and chocolate?”

Mélie waves a hand at him haughtily. “You’re not staying here so you’ve surrendered your right to comment.”

His jaw drops open. “That’s _so_ unhealthy!”

“Well.” Dianne huffs. “The sofa folds out into a bed if you need it.”

“So you don’t have to share with my brother when you visit,” Mélie laughs.

“Hilarious.”

Arthur swings back through the doorway and the room is mightily cramped with five people in it, even if two of them are on the bed. “I like this place, Amicia. Make it so.”

Rolling over on the bed, she looks up at Mélie who has sat up, cross-legged on the mattress, hands on her knees, eyes fixed on Amicia’s face, still wearing that soft, warm-hug smile. “I agree.” Her voice is filled with the same enveloping sensation that sends those tingles sparkling down her spine and it takes Amicia a moment to extricate herself from the slow burn consuming her lungs and making it harder to breathe.

All of that… _whatever_, means she almost misses when Mélie says, “Yeah. I agree. This is a good one.” (And the only reason she catches it is because she’s watching Mélie’s mouth and how it curls with her smile.)

She takes a moment to gather her wits, finds it’s easier when she looks away and back at Dianne. “Cool. I’ll tell my parents.”

\--

Robert makes no bones about filling out the paperwork in good order; he has them put all their details on the sheet and, instead of getting Seamus’ contact information, lists himself and Beatrice as emergency contacts. Mélie gives him this look like he’s sprouted a halo.

They _do_ put a little bed in the work room and move one of the chests of drawers. Amicia takes that one. Mélie has a lot of art stuff, after all. But that’s… well the moving in comes later.

First, there’s prom.

\--

“Wow, Amicia,” Hugo says as she’s sitting on her bed letting Beatrice fix her hair up properly. “You look like a princess.” He scuttles into the room and takes her hand, bouncing excitedly.

“Thanks, Hugo,” she laughs, smoothing at his hair with her free hand. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the prom.”

His head tips to one side. “What’s that?”

“It’s um… a dance to celebrate finishing school.”

“Oh!” He makes one higher bounce and adds, “Can I come?”

“You haven’t finished school yet,” Beatrice tells him, tucking a pin into Amicia’s hair and patting it gently. Outside, her father toots his horn to let them know he’s returned, collection of friends completed. “All done.”

Standing, she drops Hugo’s hand and inspects her mother’s work in the mirror. Now her hair is all done up with intricate braiding and twirled together in an elaborate bun at the back. The pins her mother used all have little pink flowers on the ends so it looks like she’s got a tiny bouquet on her head.

“Thanks, mum. It looks amazing.”

Hugo pounds down the stairs ahead of her but he doesn’t make it to the door in time to let Robert in. He’s holding the door already. Lucas and Arthur standing behind their sofa in proper suits, the former with a maroon bow tie and a crisp black suit jacket over a white shirt; the latter has a blue bow and under his shimmery blue-black jacket is a vest with shiny buttons.

It’s Mélie, though, who makes her stumble, almost miss a step coming down. _She’s_ not in a dress, just as she’d promised she wouldn’t be. Instead, she’s in sleek high-waisted black trousers held up with suspenders, a vibrant teal striped shirt, a tie of her own, longer than the boys’ and a black blazer, the sleeves of which are rolled up with her shirt so the blue shows at her elbow. It’s… Amicia stops dead in her tracks, staring at her. At Mélie with her hair loose and curled and her cheeky smile and the matte black canvas shoes she’s matched with the rest of her ensemble.

For a moment, she forgets to keep walking, forgets there are other people in the room. Then Beatrice jabs a finger into her kidneys and that gets her going again.

“You guys look _great_,” she breathes when she gets to the bottom, her eyes not leaving Mélie, though. “Love the…” she waggles a finger at her.

And Mélie’s smile tips wider. “I did say I wouldn’t wear a dress.”

“You…” Something sticks in her throat, so she tries again. “You sure did.”

Mélie tilts towards her, hands in her pockets. “And _you_ look gorgeous.”

Feeling momentarily underdressed, Amicia glances down at the flowery pink dress she’d bought when they’d gone shopping together. “Oh. Thanks.”

Arthur slips a hand through her elbow. “Absolutely stunning, Amicia.” He winks.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Robert calls drolly.

And when they all look up, he’s waiting with a camera to snap a shot of their ridiculous faces, all confused by his statement and then surprise at being caught off guard. Robert just cackles at them and waves for another one.

“Come on. It’s our prerogative to get photos of you all dressed up. Shuffle together.”

They oblige, and he’s luckily not too bent on prolonging the experience. He shoos them from the house and they pile into Amicia’s car; no limousine for them.

Their school has booked a venue a little classier than the hall, and it’s about a half hour drive, most of that time they spend asking teasing questions about outfit choices. Notably: “I see you committed to buying a pair of shoes, Lucas.”

“Oh, hush. Amicia helped.”

“As I recall, I sat on your chair squeaking it until you snapped at me.”

“Details.”

Arriving at the venue is another matter. She has to navigate the confusing labyrinth of entrance signs, locate a park, _not_ get rear-ended by some guy who thinks he should get the empty space she eventually finds, and then figuring out how to get from the carpark into the building and pinpoint the door they’re to spend the evening behind. It’s… well, it’s a team effort.

Mélie’s fingers find her wrist and pull her around. “This one.” Amicia follows her finger and spots one of their maths teachers standing beside a table with a sign stating the school’s name.

Between them and the entrance, however, is this great big main hallway, a sort of foyer for the three or four or however many halls are at the venue; and packing that space are a bunch of other students milling around, waiting to meet up with friends before they go in. Even though Mélie has located their destination, she doesn’t attempt to lead them towards it and neither Lucas nor Arthur makes a move to be the first, either.

Braving the milling students would be wading into dangerous waters and she has no desire to get caught up with any of them, not at this stage of the evening, anyway. Besides, it’s far more entertaining to wait them out as they file in and point out all the little interactions going on.

Lucas hisses, his hand shooting out, banging into Amicia’s side before successfully grabbing Arthur. “Cici.”

As one, they whirl around to see where he’s indicating.

And there she is: all gold Cinderella-dress with a great bustle and dripping jewels from her hair and throat. She’s hanging off the arm of a tall fellow that maybe goes to their school but maybe also Amicia doesn’t pay enough attention to know who he is, just that he looks dashing in a high contrast black-and-white suit.

“Guess she can’t be single for too long, huh?” Mélie grumbles. “Maybe she’ll combust if she doesn’t have a guy’s attention.”

“We can live in hope,” Arthur replies, sour, arms folded.

“You just _know_ she’ll be judging everyone who came alone,” Lucas adds. “Best not let her see us.”

“What are you talking about, Lucas?” Amicia asks him. Tightening her hold on Mélie’s hand, she slips her fingers into his arm, too. “We didn’t come alone; we’re here together.”

Literally at the exact same time, both twins say: “You’re such a dork.”

But they all burst out into laughter two seconds later so it’s fine.

By their joined arms, she tugs Mélie and Lucas through the crowd towards the entrance where they get checked off as present by the maths teacher and ushered into the room. Unlike at their last school dance – the one in the gymnasium – this one has somewhat more of a budget. The room is decked out in twinkling lights and streamers and balloons; the overhead spotlights are muted, giving the whole space a dim ambiance. Around the outside of the room are several tables bearing drinks and no doubt later food will join them on platters. This time, the drinks’ bowls are fancy fake-crystal carved with hexagonal patterns and the tables have cloths checked in the school colours with laced edges.

Mostly, this whole thing just seems exactly like the school dance; from the music playing through overhead speakers and the jumping of their classmates being passed off as dancing to the surreptitious teacher presence in the corners and the not-quite-subtle ways certain groups of people avoid others, a pale imitation of their usual social hierarchy. Only instead of being casually clothed for school and keeping heads down, everyone is dressed to impress, or to make a statement, and that alone acts as a highlighter around the outside of various groups, bright colours stating ‘get out’ or ‘do not interact’.

Ever one for obvious statements, Lucas notes, “This is exactly like the only school dance I ever went to. But bigger.”

“Yup.”

“What do we do?”

Arthur leans towards him, careful not to touch. “We dance, buddy. Come on.”

Amicia watches them go and when she turns back to Mélie she’s met by this glittering, crooked smile, the one that puts other lights to shame and fills her ears with only the sound of her beating heart, muting everything else around her. “If you ask me to dance,” she hears through wool and whatever dazed magic has been cast over her, “I _will_ have to punch you.”

She manages an eye roll. “Maybe later,” and heads off to the edge of the room where the drinks’ bowls are.

“Better not at all.”

Knowing Mélie would follow her, she doesn’t worry about whether or not her reply, “But you’re dressed just right for dancing,” would be heard.

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

Amicia rests a hip on the table after pouring herself a little plastic cup of whatever fruit punch concoction is in it (a not poisoned beverage, she assumes, given the heavy teacher presence around the area). “What are you going to do then? Just stand around all evening?”

“Maybe.” She brushes hair from her face and tucks her hands into her front pockets and Amicia’s eyes drop, following the motion, when she catches a shimmer on her wrist. Then she’s stuck staring at how Mélie’s fingers are slipped beneath the fabric and how it stretches across her hips and the weave of her belt and the bracelets around her arm; one of them is a braid of dark leather, one is a string of silver supporting shining charms, and the third woven of colourful fabric. “Isn’t that something I’m allowed to do?”

Her voice draws Amicia’s attention back to her face where her smile is still canting her lips, deepening the crease of her scar near her nose. Still, it takes her a beat to remember she’s meant to reply to that. “Right.” Having not meant to say that aloud, she winces. “I suppose you’re allowed to stand around looking lost all night. But wouldn’t you rather dance? Just a little?”

“I’m not lost,” she says, eyes all bright and oxygen-thieving. “I’m with you.”

Someone with a giant universal vacuum must decide that’s the perfect moment to suck all the air out of the room because Amicia’s lungs suddenly no longer have anything to inhale and her heart stutters along until she figures out how to breathe again. “That’s so nice,” she mumbles. “But I still think we should dance.”

Mélie sidles closer so their hips and shoulders bump and she only shifts away a little bit and that doesn’t do a great deal for her breathing. “You see those idiots,” she asks, indicating her brother and Lucas where they’re bouncing with various degrees of enthusiasm. “I don’t want to be that.”

“Well… we won’t dance to a jumpy song,” Amicia says. “But I’m sure they’ll play a slow song eventually.”

And that right there is proof that there’s no oxygen getting to her brain. Why else would she say something so unfathomable and tingly and maybe-stupid? But the look Mélie turns on her isn’t _angry_ or anything: confused, definitely; surprised, probably; and there’s a little of something else, too, something that’s _like_ the warm sparkles, but different, subdued somehow, more contained.

“A slow song?” Mélie’s voice is tight. A muscle jumps in her jaw and the light behind her eyes flickers a little dimmer. “Serious?”

“I uh…” Is it too late to backtrack? “I mean, I won’t make you dance if you really don’t want to,” yes, apparently she can, “but yeah, if you’d like, why not? It’s not like we can embarrass ourselves.” So… no backtracking then. Cool. That’s fine, she’s doing great. If the floor could open up any second, that’d be great.

“Huh.” There’s a waver, maybe, Amicia thinks, to her voice. A crack to it, a bob to her throat. “Um…” It definitely trembles this time. “Sure, I guess, if you want?”

“If _you_ want.”

Mélie rolls her eyes again. “Yeah. Alright, dork. One dance.”

And her words make that funny glowing warmth echo through her, carried by the tingling electricity until the reverberations make her feel like she should explode. It has to go somewhere so it comes out in a brilliant grin. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

“Alright what?”

Arthur swings around to join them, hair all plastered to his head now with sweat, tie loosened around his neck. Not far behind him is Lucas, marginally less rumpled and sweaty but smiling just as widely, face flushed and sleeves pushed up.

“Amicia just finished convincing me to do one dance.”

“One?”

“_One_.”

He shrugs. “Your loss. You wanna dance, Amicia?”

She spends ten whole seconds thinking about the funny fluttering feeling in her stomach and the light in Mélie’s eyes before she says, “Duh,” and allows Arthur to lead her over to where everyone else is still bouncing, but to a live band now. Apparently, she missed completely when they set up and the music switched from the pre-arranged mix.

It’s easy enough to get caught up in the music as it pounds through the room, disappearing into the press of bodies and heat. None of them, for those few minutes, are the kids she sat in classes with, tip-toed around, heard gossip and rumour about, avoided if she could. They’re just a faceless mass and she’s having a good time with Arthur. Nothing more.

There’s a moment when the song shifts, a break where the people shuffle around – some off the floor for a break and others taking their place or rotating to new companions – and that’s when her stomach clenches so hard it squishes all the bubbling butterflies because she makes eye contact with Cecile. She’s dancing with her tall boy, his hands on her hips, head tipped low towards her, an intention that Amicia isn’t oblivious to at all; but she mustn’t be as engrossed with him as he is with her because her gaze lingers, long and heated, on Amicia. Her skin prickles, burns, itches but she can’t look away (or _won’t_ maybe).

“Hey.”

That tears her eyes from Cecile and back to Arthur. He’s leaning close so she can hear him.

“Ignore her.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “She say something?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “But she’s been staring all night.”

“Why?”

“Don’t care. Let her.”

Amicia takes his hand and squeezes, allows him to spin her around, laughs and falls against him when she completes the circle. He beams at her and she beams back.

“Let her,” she repeats. “She’s probably just jealous that we’re having a good time.”

He lifts her hand up and to one side, some sort of affected lordly gesture, perhaps. “And she’s still performing for an imaginary audience.”

His words, his manner, his crooked smile and loose movements return the warmth to her chest. Not quite the same one as when she was with Mélie, but it’s still enjoyment. For that brief, perfect moment, she’s reached a conclusion about personal happiness that feels slippery, like a secret that should take years more to properly grasp: she doesn’t have to please onlookers, she just has to have fun with her friends.

And half an hour later – after dancing with Lucas once, then taking a break for orange punch before dancing with Arthur again – when the band strikes up a slow beat, she whirls immediately through the throng and tromps directly out to where Mélie is still standing, leaning against the wall with Lucas. At Mélie’s raised brow and stubborn little half-smile, she extends a hand, wiggles her fingers.

“One dance, Mélie,” she reminds her.

Is it somehow suggestive that the only dance she’s asked from Mélie is a slow one? Maybe, but she’s not about to read into it. Not going to look for portents where intentions are friendly only, when all she wants is to enjoy her evening and hopes Mélie does too.

The thrill that lances from her palm up her arm and shoots through every nerve in her body when Mélie takes her hand though? That’s indescribable.

“One dance,” Mélie says, tone low in a way that makes her stomach flutter. “And not a second more.”

“Promise.”

So Mélie allows herself to be pulled closer, drawn out into the mass of dancers and despite a funny little pinch to her brow that speaks of barely-concealed worry, she also lets Amicia lean closer. It should maybe ring an alarm bell that when they’re face to face, when Amicia’s arms rest over Mélie’s, there’s this falter to her breathing; but it doesn’t. It should maybe ring an alarm bell that Mélie hesitates in letting her hands rest anywhere, they flutter about before she lets them drop naturally to her waist; but it doesn’t. It should maybe ring an alarm bell when Amicia tips closer so they’re basically hugging, that Mélie stiffens momentarily; but it doesn’t. She doesn’t think about it.

Because that’s easier.

Easier than wondering at the manner in which her churning stomach and the flickering chest light have shifted now, as if in direct response to Mélie.

It takes a few moments of shuffling feet and stifled laughter when their beats don’t quite match up, but then they relax, slowly at first, but into each other after another moment’s hesitation. And when the song picks up, fading into a faster tune, instead of bailing, Mélie’s smile tips up a little higher and she pulls away just far enough to really get into it. Arthur joins them then until they’re bopping along to the beat together. Amicia even manages to draw Lucas back over to them, and surrounded by her best friends, smiling and flushed with good cheer, she decides that despite everything that happened, this is quite a good way to end their time at high school.

\--

In contrast to their prom, graduation is _unspeakably_ boring. And so, it shan’t be spoken of. Not when all that really happens is the whole school gets together for a farewell and they’re forced to sit – in the stifling almost-summer heat of their hall – through a long and rambling dissection of their time at school and all their myriad achievements.

She thinks probably the only reason any of the other students even _care_ is that they only have a half day at school when the seniors graduate. From experience, she can attest that it’s the only reason she ever applauded at the end of a two hour assembly where they were subjected to the drone of the headmaster.

\--

They perform a really great disappearing act for the first two weeks of the summer break: packing up all their shit and moving it to their new apartment. _And_ they do it with the bonus difficulty level of: don’t let Seamus find out for as long as possible.

Remarkable, honestly, that they manage as well as they do.

He’s out of the house at nearing-five in the afternoon on a Wednesday (getting drunk, Arthur informs them helpfully), so that means the four of them are scurrying about packing stuff into boxes and loading them into the back of Amicia’s car. Mélie has provided a potentially useful estimate that they have about two hours before he stumbles from the pub and calls a cab, which means they have barely enough time to finish this up and get gone.

She understands why the twins don’t want him to know too much about what’s going on (Arthur gave her a quick rundown of the possibly illegal con they’d had to pull to ensure they even had the money for university), but really. It’s less like being secret agents, and more just a rushed mess that makes them all feel as if they’ve perpetually forgotten something massively important.

And it’s in the middle of this running around that Mélie, on a whim, checks the mail.

“Hey, it’s…”

They all stop the furious taping of boxes and look up. She’s standing in the doorway, posture slack, expressionless, looking like she’s holding something potentially highly dangerous, but it’s just a stack of letters. How dangerous can they be?

Arthur is the only one to straighten. “It’s what?”

“University acceptance letters.”

Lucas and Amicia stand too, at that, dropping their rolls of tape and thick marker pens. Even as they’re crossing the room, wending between boxes – packed and half packed and waiting on taping – she’s flipping through the envelopes, shuffling them around so she can hand roughly half to Arthur.

Firstly, this means she’ll probably have acceptance letters waiting at home too; but more important in the immediate sense is the breath she’s holding, waiting to hear the results. Will their optimistic plans be derailed or is this all going to work out fine like she said it would?

Mélie’s hands shake as she pries at the flap, the opposite of how Arthur tears his open with swift determination. He drops strips of torn paper onto the floor and sinks down on the nearest surface (a sealed box which crumples slightly under his weight) to pull the documents from inside.

The first one he tosses onto the floor almost instantly, but the second and third ones he balances on his lap. And the fourth one? It produces a brilliant smile.

“I got in,” he mutters, looking up, turning his beaming face first to his sister but then on the others as well. “Moving in with you for sure, Amicia.”

Taking the paper he waves at her, she scans it quickly before throwing her arms around his neck. “Congrats. I haven’t got mine yet though, maybe I won’t be going.” Over her shoulder, she feels him move and then a clap; Lucas must have offered a high five.

He scoffs. “Course you will.” Then he turns to Mélie and says, “Hurry up.”

She’s opened just one so far, stopped to wait for Arthur’s turn out, but it’s been discarded to the floor and she’s working her thumb under the next one. “Give me a second.”

“No. Just rip it.”

After slowing down specifically to annoy Arthur, Mélie tugs her second one free and then sighs. She passes the top sheet of paper to Amicia and Arthur slips out of their hug to peer at it with her. The watermark at the top indicates it’s from École-de-Condé, Mélie’s first choice.

And the text in the first paragraph indicates her acceptance.

When Amicia looks up, a slow smile has bloomed across Mélie’s face and it only tips higher, wider, brighter when she wraps her up in a hug too, pressing as close as possible. “You did it!”

In response, Mélie’s hands settle around her waist, warm and solid and soft; there’s no hint of stiffness when Amicia squeezes and when she backs away, that light she’s coming to expect as a constant is glittering behind her eyes. Her smile flickers around the edges but doesn’t fall. “Thanks.”

“What was the other paper in the packet?” Amicia asks, then, and Mélie’s eyebrows tip into a frown briefly before she holds it up to read, still pressed sort of awkwardly into a side-hug.

“Um…” She pulls away properly to flick through the paper, frown creasing lower the more she reads. “Oh. Huh. I um… got the scholarship I applied for?”

“You don’t sound sure,” Arthur mumbles, sidling up beside her to peer over her shoulder. “Oh hey! You did, that’s so good.”

“What’s the scholarship cover?” Lucas wants to know. Probably that’s important, because if it includes housing, she won’t be moving in with them.

“Um…” Mélie shuffles through the paper again muttering, “I think it’s just discounts,” until she finds what she’s looking for, then adds, “Yeah. It’s a three-quarters cover of all tuition fees and textbooks are supplied. There’s some fine print about other requirements, like I’m expected to buy my own paper and brushes and stuff, but any of the like… optional courses are covered by it.”

“Optional courses?”

“Yeah, so… life drawing sessions, trips to the galleries, interviews with guest speakers at events, that stuff.”

Amicia’s smile widens with every word. “That’s so exciting, Mélie!”

“Yeah. Wish I’d applied for something,” Arthur laughs.

“Why didn’t you?” Lucas wonders, attention shifting back to the packing.

He shrugs. “Didn’t seem like something to bother with.”

“Well that was stupid.”

“Hey!” Arthur turns to Lucas but before he can escalate that exchange further, Mélie interrupts with: “Guess we should finish packing this stuff up, then.”

That reminds them of their current task and why they’re doing it all secretively, what moving out means to them, and that effectively deescalates the mood.

After a moment of quiet, of them falling back to their tasks, Lucas asks, “You’re really not going to tell him anything?” He looks up briefly at each of them. “Won’t he want to know where you are? Can’t he… like, stop you somehow?”

“He can try,” Arthur grumbles. “But after we turned eighteen, we went to the bank and got the paperwork to transfer the accounts in our names into our sole control.”

“Can’t imagine he was alright with that?” Amicia notes.

Mélie just laughs. “He wasn’t. Not until he was drunk enough that he didn’t know what he was signing, anyway.”

The tape Lucas is sticking down squeaks when his hand jerks. “Isn’t that _illegal_?”

“A little,” Arthur admits, “but he doesn’t remember it.”

“Besides, what’s the least questionable thing to do: get your father sloshed so you can be in control of your finances, or twiddle our thumbs until he’s spent it all on alcohol?”

“That’s fair.” Lucas sounds like the concession pains him.

Amicia stacks another finished box on top of one of the others but before bending to start on the next one, asks, “Won’t he notice that your stuff is gone?”

“Maybe.” Arthur shrugs. “Don’t know about you, Amicia, but I wanna move out as soon as possible and ideally if he’s gonna notice our _stuff_ is gone, he’ll be noticing that we are, too.”

“So you still want me to pick you up tomorrow?”

They exchange glances and nod.

“Right, then.”

“Are you packed?” Mélie asks. “Or are you going to spend longer with your parents?”

Sitting, she pulls the last empty box towards her (the twins don’t own a lot, really) and begins rolling up the last of their heavy winter gear, most of it looks to be Arthur’s. “Dad’s dropping off some today,” she explains. “The rest I’ll take tomorrow when we go.”

She doesn’t mention that, unlike them, she’s not planning on cutting her folks out of her life with a scalpel and so anything she forgets, she can go and collect whenever. Arthur and Mélie, though, they’re essentially going through their entire cramped house and removing any indication they ever lived there. Part of her is dreading picking them up in the morning because Seamus is liable to explode; but she also really wants to see his reaction, be there for them when they need it, as well.

And she has no doubts they _will_ need her.

\--

Regardless of her misgivings, she pulls up outside the Dubois residence before eight the next morning. Arthur had said their father usually sleeps through most of the morning so with any luck they can load up the last of their belongings and be off without disturbing him.

To that end, she texts Mélie rather than knocking on the front door. And she’s rewarded when Mélie is the one to pull it open, a finger to her mouth.

“Dad’s still asleep,” she whispers, “but he had a rough night so he could wake up any moment.”

“And he’ll be in a fine fettle if he does,” Arthur adds, a backpack slung over each shoulder. “Grab your bags.”

He heads right to her car, deposits his things in the trunk but he twitches while he waits beside her, clearly nervous. Maybe he’s not as certain about all this as he seemed.

“You alright?” Amicia asks him. “You still want to go?”

“Fuck yes,” he blurts. “The sooner the better. I just…”

She has her mouth opened to press for more but before she can there’s a shout from inside. They both step away from the car just as Mélie slams the front door open and comes storming out, followed by a livid Seamus. His hair and beard are dishevelled, shirt stained, face red and eyes bleary. None of that is stopping his tantrum.

“Where are you going?” he snaps. “Get back here.”

He continues to advance across the narrow lawn until he can take her by the wrist, and she has to pull herself free with a vicious tug. Seamus’ other hand swings around, but his slap misses her by inches.

Mélie ignores the gesture entirely (doesn’t even flinch, which is impressive but awful and sends something cold and heavy plunging through Amicia’s stomach), strides briskly over to them and dumps the last of her things in with Arthur’s. “Um. No. Don’t think I will,” she says, barely loud enough for him to hear. She’s close enough now that Amicia can reach out and take her hand, so that’s exactly what she does.

Seamus runs a hand down his face, blinks a few times, bringing the whole scene into focus: his children, packed and one foot out the door; Amicia and her car; the early morning departure. He must combine that with something else, too, perhaps their emptied rooms, because his face darkens.

“Moving out, are you?” He snorts. “Good fucking riddance.”

“You’ll miss us when no one cooks for you,” Mélie retorts. “When you’re living in squalor.”

“Ungrateful wretch. See how you do on your own.” Even from several metres away there’s an air about him that seems to loom and Mélie shrinks back when he lifts a hand. “But when shit falls apart, don’t call.” He heads back to the house. “And don’t come crawling back.”

Then he’s banging the door behind him and in the stillness of the morning it seems both too loud and incredibly final.

All three of them stand there for a long, long beat; Amicia holding onto Mélie’s hand tightly and Arthur with both of his fisted at his sides. Then she exhales, squeezes the hand in her grip before releasing it and turning to the car.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Best idea I’ve heard in a while,” Arthur grumbles.

\--

The actual act of moving in is, after that, simple enough. Robert collected their keys from Dianne when he arrived earlier, and he deposits the rings for the front door and the side windows into their hands as they get out of the car. He has a fourth set as well, Amicia had asked for a key from Dianne for Lucas, but Robert’s going to get a spare cut for his use before giving it to him. Which is fair.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks her as they watch Mélie and Arthur drop their bags behind the couch and flop down onto it. “How’d it go?”

She hunches her shoulders. “Can’t complain, I guess.”

“Dad was his usual charming self,” Arthur adds, head tipped back, eyes closed.

“Hope we never see him again,” Mélie agrees.

Something wars across Robert’s face, something she can’t identify, something tearing him between two ends. Whatever the other side is, the one that wins is the one that says, “You’ve got a good chance here, pity he’s too selfish to see that.”

The angle is bad, but she can still see when Arthur smiles.

Robert places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes it. “I’ll let you guys get settled. Have fun unpacking.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mélie mutters, “we’ll have a _blast_.”

He leaves in a gale of laughter and after locking the door behind him, Amicia squishes herself onto the sofa between them, leans sideways until her head falls onto Mélie’s shoulder.

“I guess this is what starting over feels like,” Mélie whispers.

She hums.

“And unpacking?” Arthur asks.

“Can wait,” Amicia tells him, “until we’ve had a nap.”

\--

Even the rest of their holiday disappears into preparation for university. Into things like scurrying about for textbooks and sorting out timetables and buying supplies and stocking up their fridge and other assorted day-to-day stuff. It disappears into the humdrum of wardrobe logistics; since Amici has the small room with no wardrobe, only a chest of drawers, she squishes her clothes into Mélie’s. And Mélie, in turn, makes the unilateral decision to keep their heavy coats under the bed in a box.

(She’s not sure if it’s a good thing or bad that her closet gets all mixed up with Mélie’s inside the first week, but it’s fine. It’s _fine_. Totally fine that when they do their washing the first time all her clothes get muddled up with Mélie’s and then – because they’re _tired_ and not paying _attention_ – she gets out of the shower and Mélie’s wearing one of shirts. And that’s, just to be absolutely clear, that’s _fine_ and it doesn’t do something weird to the lining of her stomach _at all_.)

Anyway, Amicia isn’t sure _why_ exactly she’s surprised to come home one evening after scoping out all the buildings her classes are in to find Arthur hunched over on their couch with a big cardboard box at his knees like a coffee table and absolutely covered in little metallic looking contraptions. She stops for a second in the doorway, forgetting to close it, keys hanging from one finger, a plastic bag of Chinese take-out from the other, staring at the explosion.

“Um… did you… pull something apart?”

He twists, more violent flinch than conscious action, to look at her over his shoulder. “Oh hey, you’re back.” Then he goes back to his mess. “Yeah. One of the guys I met today had computer problems, I offered to fix it for him.”

She pushes the door closed with her heel, locks it, wanders over to peer over the couch at the spread of computer bits. “You getting paid for it?”

“No… Should I?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He hums. “Oh. Next time.”

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“Probably. There’s an opening with the campus tech department,” he tells her, looking back around, one arm going over the back of the sofa so he can investigate with his nose the smell. “I’m gonna put in an application. Is that dinner?”

She lifts it. “Yeah. Is Mélie back?”

“In her room.” As she rustles off to the room Arthur calls, “Hey, leave the food!”

Laughing, Amicia ignores him, raps two knuckles against Mélie’s doorframe before poking her head in. Mélie’s sitting on a little stool fiddling with the screws holding up her easel and she looks around at the sound, so Amicia lifts the bag and shakes it with another plastic swish.

“Dinner?”

“Oh…” Mélie sighs. “You’re a blessing.”

“Well, I do try.”

Wiping her hands on a towel hanging from one easel strut, she stands. “Is Arthur still playing with someone’s computer?”

“Yes, and he’s made a right mess of the lounge.”

“Yo!” Mélie says, when they step into the room. “Keep that shit in your room!”

He startles again and shoots a venomous look back at them. “Hush. I’ll be done in a bit.”

“You’re not eating until it’s gone from the public space.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” he gasps.

“Sure I do.” She leans forward and rests her elbows on the back of the chair beside him. “See how we don’t have anywhere else to sit and eat dinner? Move your shit.”

“She has a point, Arthur,” Amicia mumbles, depositing the bag on the bench and unpacking the containers. “I’m not standing up to eat dinner.”

“Oh uh, fine, give me a minute.”

“Here,” Mélie slides around the sofa, “let me help.”

“You will not!” She hears a funny clacking sound and assumes he’s lurched forward to stop her from touching something. “You’ll break it worse.”

“You’ve pulled all the guts out of it; how can it be broken _worse_?”

“I just know you and your clutzy fingers,” he grouches. “You’ll drop a screw between the couch cushions and it’ll disappear into another dimension.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“Living with you two is going to be like moving in with a cranky old married couple isn’t it?” Amicia teases, prying the lids off the last of the plastic dishes.

Both of the twins look around at her with matching expressions of equal horror and disgust. And they both start protesting her words at the same time too, in the exact same tone.

“How dare you speak suck filth,” from Mélie.

And, “You’re not even my type,” from Arthur.

Which of course, means Mélie rolls her eyes and gives him a shove in the shoulder. “You shouldn’t lie to people. Especially not directly to their face like that.”

“What? She’s _not_ my type.” He throws a hand out at Amicia. “She’s basically my adopted sister.”

Laughing, Amicia says, “And I love you both, too,” but she goes back to fetching dishes out of the cupboard and so misses the way Mélie’s face changes in response to her words.

\--

Living off-campus has multiple benefits, some more obvious than others and some perhaps more _advantageous_ than others. For example:

Having their own kitchen and laundry means no dicking around with queues in cafeteria halls or suffering through pre-arranged menus and nor do they have to muck about with dirty communal washing machines. They don’t have to pay the exorbitant prices just to maintain a clean wardrobe, they don’t have to worry about what ick someone else has left in there, and they don’t have to cart piles of clothes across two blocks just to use them. So that’s all great; plus they have a little balcony where they can hang strings of clothes to dry when the weather permits.

They _also_ don’t have to trek in their flip flops through the courtyard to the amenities facilities and shower in the public bathrooms, because _ew_, quite frankly. Amicia stuck her nose in there on the way through looking for her classrooms and sure, they’re definitely cleaned on the regular, but that doesn’t stop the tiles from being this horrible greyish yellow, nor does it entirely lift the tacky feeling that pulls on shoe soles. And they don’t have to worry about perves, or live with sticky plastic shower curtains.

Neither do they have to worry about a floor don enforcing curfews or guest restrictions or those considerate lights-and-sounds-out by certain hours to prevent disruption to other students. Which is great on the one hand, because it means they can sit up to whatever hour they like and not get in trouble. It’s _less_ great because they can sit up to any hour they like and then they have to suffer the consequences because no one told them to go bed.

“I kinda miss dad telling me to sleep at a reasonable hour,” Amicia admits, staring at her burnt toast through bleary eyes one morning in their first week. “I’m not yet a responsible adult and I shouldn’t be trusted to make decisions.”

“You say that now,” Arthur mumbles into the countertop. “You were happy enough last night.”

“Last night I hadn’t developed sandpaper eyeballs.”

“You should get that looked at.”

She huffs, takes a bite of her charred bread and winces at the bitter crunch. “Didn’t you guys have to responsible yourselves to bed?” Making a decision that can only be for the betterment of her health, she throws the toast in the bin. “Can’t imagine your dad reminding you to get enough sleep.”

“Yeah. He didn’t do that. But if we were loud, he’d hit us.”

Now, neither of the twins particularly likes to talk about Seamus or his myriad ways of being horrible to them, so it’s always something that catches her a bit off-guard (like right now), but frankly she’s just too tired to react in any way beyond patting him with a dead-fish hand flop on the shoulder.

“I won’t hit you,” she exhales.

“Thank goodness.”

It’s great because there are no rules about who can visit them and when and at what time they have to be gone. Which is fantastic for Lucas who sometimes crashes on their couch for the evening rather than go home at some ridiculous post-nine hour of the night and potentially wake Laurentius up with his tired banging about. He gets to hang out, they get to see him fairly regularly, and no one can poke their head in and yell about how he’s not supposed to be there. (He brings his Playstation over on their second day and plugs it in, tucks it onto the shelf under the television. And no one can stop them from using it whenever they like, from yelling loud curses at the screen, from bypassing lunch in favour of a few games.)

What’s _not_ great is all the possible ways Arthur can abuse this right by bringing significant others over for an afternoon, evening, weekend, whatever.

Mélie slams his door closed with a vicious bang. “I swear to _god_, Arthur. Do _not_ be this way. Don’t be that guy.”

There’s an audible whistle when Arthur yanks the door back open and steps out in nothing but a pair of shorts. “What? I’ll bring friends around if I want.”

“Yes,” she hisses, and Amicia steps from her room to see what’s going on at this hour of the morning. Mélie’s face is _red_ and she assumes it’s from anger. “You’re perfectly entitled to do that. But for the love of all that’s holy, _don’t_ have half-naked people wandering around, oh my god.”

Oh.

It’s not anger.

It’s _mortification_.

“He’s wearing _pants_,” Arthur objects. “Would you have this problem if it was a girl?”

“Yes!” She throws a hand at his door. “And those aren’t _pants_ they’re just… glorified underwear. Get fucking _dressed_!” She’s clearly yelling the last part at whoever this guy is hiding in Arthur’s room.

Mélie whirls, almost knocks her head into Amicia and stops abruptly. “Do we need a ground rule about bringing dates home?” she asks softly.

“I…” Mélie deflates. “I don’t want to be that kinda roommate, you know? The prudish one who doesn’t want her friends to have lives. Bring whoever you want around. Just… if they’re gonna be in the public spaces, make sure they’re like…”

“Appropriately clothed?” Amicia offers.

“Yeah. That.”

Amicia arches an eyebrow at Arthur but Mélie brushes past her, slinks back into her room, shoulders slumped. Behind him, she spots the fellow he’d brought around, now wearing a shirt _and_ his ‘glorified underwear’. She gets where Mélie is coming from, honestly; there’s not much to them.

“Sound fair, Arthur?”

He huffs, grumbles, rubs a hand over his eyes. But he relents, “Yeah. I guess that’s fair.”

As he turns to leave, she says, “And um… hey?” He pauses. “Maybe if you’re gonna be… just let us know? So, we can block the noise out?”

Both Arthur _and_ his guest go the exact same shade of embarrassed crimson. “Yeah,” Arthur croaks. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

\--

Classes sort of just… start. Without preamble or warning or concessions to learning curves. One moment they’re crammed into hallways outside lecture halls at seven forty-eight for eight o’clock starts; all wide eyed and excited (and ignoring the sullen, sleepy glowers of third and fourth year students as they shuffle by); the next they’re being quizzed on assigned reading lists and curriculum diagrams and handed their first piece of assessment. It’s…

It’s _humbling_.

The kinds of things that would have taken a month to cover in high school are breezed past here with a single slide and a hand wave. Before Amicia has gotten her notebook open on the swinging desk attached to her seat, the lecturer has already moved on.

“You’re not gonna have a lot of time for this one,” he’s saying with all the enthusiasm of someone who’s going to have to mark near to a hundred twelve-hundred word essays in a little over a fortnight. “So find yourself a good café or buy a coffee machine and learn to sleep standing up.”

And then he’s moving on again, slide changing. She doesn’t get the chance to write down so much as the due date.

“It’s a good thing these slides are uploaded to the course website,” says the boy beside her to his own notebook. “Or we’d never learn anything.”

On his other side is a girl with wild, curly brown hair and she hunches over her desk, speaking to her pen. “My older brother never goes to lectures,” she mumbles. “He just downloads the powerpoints and listens to the recordings.”

The boy gives a half-snort. “Smart.”

“Could we get away with that?” Amicia asks, leaning around him.

“Maybe. If Paul didn’t do weekly quizzes at the end of every lecture,” the girl sighs. “Each is worth two percent.”

She takes a moment to calculate that. Two percent for each quiz, eleven weeks of classes, that’s twenty-two percent; nearly a quarter of their total grade for the course can be earned simply by showing up and doing these tests.

“That’s…” she breathes.

“That’s how Paul always has the best attendance of any class,” the girl concludes. And she smiles, bright and dimpled, leans a bit heavier on her desk to throw a hand across the guy. “I’m Zara.”

“Amicia,” she says, taking it.

The boy lifts a hand in a mock salute. “Brad.”

They both look at him and laugh. It’s the first time Amicia has paid him more than a passing glance, finally gives him a proper look, really thinks about what he’s said. He’s wide of shoulder, has spikey blonde hair and steely blue eyes and that exact same wall of white teeth that she might see on actors. Only his is… perhaps less performative and more… honest. But it’s the thinking about what he said that actually strikes something.

“You have an accent,” she blurts. “Um… Australia?”

He laughs. “America.”

And yeah, okay, that seems about right. She doesn’t know a great deal about America honestly, but there’s something about his square face and sharp jaw-line that just screams All-American. She blinks.

“Whatcha doing in France?” Zara wonders, her hair shivering as she tilts her head to the side.

“Got a scholarship here to play rugby,” he explains. “It’s not a big sport in America.”

“And you’re studying _law_ because…?”

He shrugs. “Dad’s a cop, mum works in the DA’s office – not doing anything important, really – but I always wanted to do law.”

“Yeah, sure,” Zara burbles, waving that away. “But like… if you’re gonna play _rugby_ doesn’t being a cop fit a bit better?”

When he smiles this time it crinkles around his eyes. “Maybe. If you’re into clichés.”

“Clichés have their place,” Zara murmurs, eyes twinkling. “And you? Why law?”

Thinking about all the things she could say – all the thoughts about Seamus and how her friends couldn’t leave, all the almost-illegal things they did to get to where they are, all the horrible ways Lucas’ life could’ve been turned on its head in an _instant_ if ever something happened to Laurentius – and none of it is something she can say. So instead she shrugs. “I want to help people.”

Zara arches an eyebrow, but Brad’s smile turns soft. “As a _lawyer_?” Zara asks, incredulous.

“Laws aren’t always fair, aren’t always in the best interests of those they’re supposed to represent,” she expands. “I think… it’s important to know that, and how you can use the system to help anyway.”

Brad laughs, but it’s gentle, friendly. “Oh… I like you.”

Choosing to ignore that, Amicia asks, “What about you?” of Zara.

And her smile turns from warm and bright to something sharper. “It pays well.”

Brad laughs a bit louder, earns some glares from those around him and a sharp cough from the front of the hall.

“Something funny?” the lecturer asks.

“No. Sorry, sir; just um… Got a message from my dad. He’s finding time zones hard.”

Paul hesitates then says, “Keep phones on silent, please.” Then he’s back on track like nothing happened.

(She gets a message from Mélie not long after that, and is thankful she took the lecturer’s instruction. It’s just a text to let her know she made it to campus in one piece, found her lecture and all that; a simple update, but it tugs a smile across her face and it would’ve been annoying to have to explain to someone the reason why. Mostly because she’s not entirely _sure_ of the why.)

They keep mostly on task after that, making a few notes here and there (although Zara appears to give up completely on keeping pace with the slides and elects to inspect her cuticles instead). It’s maybe not right to say she’s _delighted_ to have connected with some people in her lecture, but it’s nice to not be completely alone, adrift, in a new environment. Instead, the three of them are lost together.

There’s something to be said about companionships forged in shared hardship.

“So which of the tutorials are you in for this?” Zara asks them as they’re filing out of the hall to get food two hours later. “I’m not until one, so I was gonna head to the library for a nap.”

“Oh, same,” Amicia says.

“Hey, me three.” Brad’s face lights up. “That’s exciting.”

“You guys gotta stick with me for group work, okay?” Zara says, tone serious even if her face doesn’t quite manage it. “My brother says the best way to survive university is to find some folks to do group work with and just…” She mimes hugging something to her chest. “Hold onto them.”

Amicia laughs, eyebrows shooting up. “You don’t know our work ethics. We could be slackers.”

“You both tried to take notes in the lecture. I think we’ll be just fine.”

Is it too optimistic to hope she’s right? Amicia hopes for it anyway.

\--

Arthur has a class (his first, lucky bastard got to sleep in) but she catches up with Lucas for lunch at the food block; which is to say, the section roughly in the middle of campus where a whole bunch of shops are crammed together to feed the hundreds of poor, starving uni students. Fondly referred to as F-Block, this squareish space is right beside the main quad, up the road a little from the library and has a bus stop right outside in case you’d rather go further into the university village to find something to eat (or catch the shuttle over to campus housing and eat in your rooms). It also features a post office, stationary store, and the shop where all course textbooks can be ordered, paid for and collected.

It is, very literally, the heart of the university. And it’s _massively_ busy.

“It’s very loud,” Brad mutters when they step inside.

“So much for my nap,” Zara agrees.

Amicia only hums, peering through the crowd until she picks out Lucas and then strides in his direction. The other two trail after her. Why? She has no idea. Presumably they don’t want to have no one to converse with, or they want to make sure she doesn’t forget about them or something? Who knows.

Regardless, she doesn’t sit when she reaches the stool Lucas is so anxiously perch atop; just offers him a smile and a tip of her head towards the exit. His answering grin is all relief and he shrugs his back pack over a shoulder before following her.

As soon as they’re outside, the noisy clatter from inside falls away and Lucas exhales a heavy breath. “Thanks,” he mutters. “You got food?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I bought some sushi.” He makes a gesture towards the gardens and they adjust their path in that direction. “Arthur texted, said he’s going out tonight with some folks he met.”

“Course he is.”

“Is that bad?”

It’s the first time Amicia is reminded of Brad and Zara’s presence; she starts at his voice near her elbow. “What? Oh. No, it’s not bad. Just like him.”

Trotting up closer to her side, Zara’s eyes glitter with a similar mischievous light to the one both of the twins are capable of summoning. “Boyfriend?”

“Arthur? Hardly. Roommate.”

Zara looks set to pry further, but Lucas interjects: “Mélie?”

“Yeah, she navigated the train fine, found her class.”

And when Zara beats Lucas this time, and says, “_Girlfriend_?” with the sort of sharp tone that implies she’s going to keep digging until she gets to the bottom of something, it’s… Well, her entire stomach _lurches_; that something warm boils through her, every inch of her skin feels hot, suddenly and that makes it hard to breathe.

She splutters. “What? _No_? I… she’s my friend.” Amicia coughs to clear whatever the gooey warmth is that has clogged up her throat and adds, “My other roommate. Arthur’s sister.” And yet there’s something sharp niggling between her ribs, it stings in a way that’s not actual pain, just… it feels like it _should_ be. Or it could be.

But Zara is looking at her still – still with the sharp twinkle, this _glint_ that Amicia doesn’t like – and her heart skips. “Uh huh,” Zara says, but it’s not convincing, not with her flat tone and her quirky smile and tilted eyebrows. Across every line of her the word ‘disbelief’ is stamped in bright, block letters.

And Amicia, _thinks_ for a second. Mélie? Her girlfriend? Ridiculous.

But her heart skips again at the thought, hammers a little harder afterwards in compensation.

It’s_ ridiculous_.

Arthur had said just the other day that they’re all practically adopted siblings, after all. So it’s absolutely absurd.

Electing not to dwell further on such silliness, she says, “Mélie goes to the art school across the river and it’s the first time she’s used the trains on her own. She was worried she’d get herself lost.”

“Not as worried as we were,” Lucas amends. “Though I think most of her confidence is faked.”

“She’s an artist?” Brad asks. “Cool.”

“Yeah,” Amicia agrees, voice still a little lost and dazed. “She is.”

Zara’s smile turns wolfish but, god bless him, before she can say something Amicia will regret hearing, Lucas says, “Hi, by the way. I’m Lucas.”

“Brad. And this is Zara. You’ve known Amicia a while?”

He shrugs. “All my life.”

“_Damn_,” Zara breathes. “And you’ve stuck together this whole time? That’s impressive.”

“When you find a good one, they’re important to hang on to,” Lucas replies with an upbeat lilt. “And it’s not hard to make space for them.”

Even though she knows he’s talking about friends, about having and keeping the people who mean the most to you, there’s a part of her that thinks of Mélie, specifically. And that funny little spike in her ribs gives a sharp tug again. Maybe it’s trying to lead her somewhere, maybe it’s indicative of her hunger after the lecture, maybe it’s because she feels very deeply the exact sentiment Lucas is explaining. Maybe.

She hopes so. Isn’t sure what to do with it otherwise.

\--

“Trains _suck_!”

Mélie’s emphatic statement is accompanied by her loud banging through the door of their apartment at a little after six-thirty that evening. She drops her bag and document cases on the floor in a clatter and it startles Arthur who, up until that exact moment, had been dozing with his head tipped against the back of the lounge chair.

“Wha…?” His eyes blink blearily at Mélie. “Oh.” And he goes back to dozing.

From where she lies stretched lengthways across the long end of their L-shaped sofa Amicia rolls her head back a bit further so she can see Mélie as she stops at the end of the couch. Mélie is upside down in her vision, hair all dishevelled with fly-aways and the tail at the nape of her neck pulled loose, but when she smiles (smiles with her whole being, from the inside out, lighting up the entire room with some sort of luminance that Amicia is pretty sure only she can see otherwise Arthur would be complaining about it) the effect is still the same, still instantaneous. It still fuels the answering warm feeling that oozes through her ribs, between her organs and spills into places that probably shouldn’t be filled with liquid sunlight.

“Why do trains suck?” she asks.

Upside-down-Mélie rests her elbows on the back of the sofa and leans forward so Amicia’s vision is filled almost completely with her brilliance. “It’s hot with so many people crammed in like sardines, you know? And they all smell awful.”

“If you’re finishing late you could just give me a call,” Amicia offers. “I’ll come pick you up.”

Her emphatic head shake frees more of her hair and Amicia watches, transfixed, as it curls around her throat. She swallows. “Nah. It’s fine. I’ll just whine about body odour.”

“Gross,” Arthur grumbles. “There’s food in the oven.”

“You didn’t wait for me?”

“I had two three hour tutorials one after the other,” he continues in a mumble. “I was starving.”

Amicia lolls her head to the side so she can watch Mélie’s progress past the sofa and into the kitchen. “He’s needy when he’s hungry, you know.”

“I know.”

“I did manage to keep him from eating the ice cream I bought, though.”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She told me to wait until you got back so we could hang out or whatever.” He drapes a hand over his eyes. “Something, something, being a good friend, something.”

And when Mélie turns her eyes back to Amicia, straightens from turning the oven on, the glimmer there, the soft, blurry edges to her smile stop up the breath in her lungs. And again, there’s a fluttery pull from between her ribs.

“You are good friends,” Mélie says, droll. “So thoughtful and amazing.”

“My restraint _is_ amazing. I’ve been waiting forty minutes for you to get back so I can eat that chocolate vienetta. Hurry up with the dinner thing.”

“Such consideration.”

“_Consider_: I want ice cream.”

Mélie just laughs, and Amicia closes her eyes, wrestles the little hook in her chest into a place where it’s not trying to crawl up her throat, dragging that something warm with it.

\--

Very quickly, and very alarmingly, it becomes apparent that Zara is the personification of the concept of adventure and she takes the idea of university being the time for elaborate and potentially regrettable escapades exceedingly literally.

Case in point: “So my roommate was all, ‘we gotta go to the Brass Room,’ and I told her that was a bad idea but she’s talked me into it.”

Brad lowers his stapled stack of notes so he can peer at her over the top like an angry grandpa about to scold energetic youths on a train. “People have _died_ at that place.”

But she waves that away. “The point of university is moving out from under your parents’ thumbs and doing stupid shit.”

“Stupid shit like _dying_,” he presses.

She just offers him a wide grin and says, “Yolo, right?”

He raises his papers again. “I’m not attending your funeral.”

At uni, in their classes, she displays a remarkable ability to work as part of a team. But the follow up story to the Brass Room comment indicates that this only holds true in relation to her academic success.

“You’re alive, I see,” Amicia says when Zara plonks herself into the seat on Brad’s other side, as always. “Did you go?”

“Oh, yeah. We went.”

Brad knocks sideways into her shoulder. “But did you _beat_ it?”

“Eventually. I’ll admit when my roommate lured me away on a ‘search for clues’,” and that comes complete with air-quotes, “only to very enthusiastically make out with me, I got a bit distracted. But we got there in the end.” She shuffles her things onto the table before adding, “I don’t think the two randoms we were grouped with found us endearing.”

And that’s… well there’s a lot to unpack there.

“She asked you on a date,” Brad eventually ventures, “and you didn’t realise?”

“Apparently. It’s fine.”

“This is what university is for,” Amicia tells him, “right?”

And Zara beams. “Right.” She takes a moment before continuing in a decidedly worrisome way, “Speaking of what university is for… Amicia, your roommates, they’re siblings, yeah?”

After a long pause during which she questions both Zara’s motives and her own desire to find out where this is going, she says, “Yes… Um, why?”

“Age gap?”

“Twins.”

Zara drops both her arms across her desk and leans forward so she can fix Amicia with this terrifyingly intense look and says, “Introduce me.”

“Oh… kay? Why, though?”

She gets nothing but a shrug and that bright, pointed grin for a bit but clearly it’s just because Zara is mulling over her choice of words. “Twins sound like an exciting prospect,” she eventually adds in a low whisper.

There’s a pang in her chest, her stomach, it’s sharp and irritating and sets her jaw in a weird, uncomfortable way. But she does admit, “You’ll have more luck with Arthur than Mélie.” (She says that even though she’s not sure it’s entirely true. Just because she has no basis on which to judge the success Zara might have with Mélie doesn’t mean it’s entirely out of the realm of possibility. A tiny little pointed part of her hopes she’s right in what she says, all the same.)

“We’ll see.”

And there’s something about her confidence in herself; this surety that she can do anything she pleases (within the law, what with training to be a lawyer and all that) and there’s little anyone can do to stop her – not judge her, or call her names, or report her behaviour to some vague authority figure – that sits with Amicia like a dead weight. Because there _isn’t_ anyone around to tell her to dress appropriately to class, and none of the lecturers could care less if she turned up in her pyjamas. There’s no one to warn her about the dangers of campus parties or talking to strangers at the local bar, no one to stop her from dating anyone she likes.

Arthur is the best example of the last one, but she hears plenty from Zara to support it and even Brad mentions a string of girls and never the same name twice. There’s nothing to stop her from doing _anything_.

And yet she still spends most of her weekends with Mélie and Lucas on the couch playing video games or binge watching some show or another. Occasionally, she sits up specifically to act as a sober driver for Arthur. It’s at one of the parties from which she collects Arthur that she bumps into Zara and Brad – separately, but both present at the same event.

She sticks her nose through the door into the humid throbbing insanity and (after wincing at the sheer volume of the music) shuffles carefully around the edge of the room until she spots Arthur. She waves, he waves back, begins to shoulder his way through the press of bodies in various stages of intoxication and she tiptoes back to the entrance. So far her encounters with campus parties have all been the same, and she and Arthur have a reasonably well-oiled routine for precisely this. It’s a plan that allows him a good time, her to avoid engaging with the partiers and, generally speaking, nobody ever notices that she was there. (Which means Amicia escapes having a prudish label slapped over herself for her avoidance of such proceedings.)

This is not the case this evening.

“Yo! De Rune!”

Jerking her shoulders up under her ears, she tries to ignore the voice, but a heavy arm drapes across her not two seconds later. Looking around, brows pinched and nose wrinkled, reveals Brad. Face all reddened from both the heat of the room and the drink in his hand, most likely, he leans into her, eyes bleary but a vague smile stretched across his face. Not far behind him is a slender girl with doe eyes and a pouty mouth who could probably be a super-model if she wanted to and she looks at Amicia with this barely concealed dislike.

“Brad,” she huffs, shrugging him away from her. “You look utterly sozzled.”

He wheezes a laugh. “It’s a good time, didn’t know you were coming.”

“Just here to pick up Arthur.” She points behind him where Arthur has gotten waylaid by a pair of loudly arguing guys by the ping pong table.

Brad and his companion both follow her indication and he lights up. “Oh! Your roommate! That’s him? Saw him trounce some guys at beer pong before. Should let Zara know he’s here.”

Her eyebrows arc up briefly but drop a second later; she shouldn’t be surprised that Zara is in attendance. Still, she asks, “Have you seen her?” Mostly because if she knows Zara’s location, she gets easier to avoid. The last thing she needs is to be delayed longer because she decides now is the perfect time to seduce Arthur.

And Brad goes, “Yeah!” All exuberance and noise, he throws a wobbly finger across heads and when Amicia stands on her tip toes (uses his non-drink-holding arm for balance) she spots Zara a little ways across the room.

Honestly? Amicia stares longer than she should, she knows that. But there’s something… there’s _something_ about seeing Zara pinned to the wall by a blonde girl with more hair than Amicia has ever seen one person own that just… it just… well it untethers her stomach and fills it with some sort of molten concoction that sends it plummeting, heavy and hot, past her diaphragm. It’s not so much a _bad_ sensation as it is a _new_ one. It’s a new feeling and she doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know why _this_ particular image ties her intestines into squirmy knots when the other couples dotted around the room in similar embraces don’t.

She drops back to her toes and only realises her breathing wasn’t doing so well when she has to suck in a huge lungful of oxygen. “She’s busy,” Amicia tells Brad. “Might just… leave her to it.”

Thankfully, Arthur arrives at her side then. He doesn’t bother introducing himself to Brad or the girl he’s with; just smiles, waves, bids them a good evening and shuffles through the fringes with Amicia out into the snappy chill of the night. The bite in the air is made worse because it contrasts so starkly with the humidity inside and Amicia inhales deeply again, enjoying the sting in her lungs, imagining that it’s cleansing her insides of all the alcohol and sweat smell.

“You knew that guy?” Arthur wonders, sinking into her passenger seat. The cold air seems to have lifted some of the tipsy waver from his eyes and voice.

“Yeah. He’s in some of my classes.”

“His friend didn’t like you.”

“She’s allowed.”

He wobbles across the console to blink up at her, a teasing smile sliding along his lips. “Should she worry you’re gonna steal her man?” And he waggles his eyebrows for effect, draws out the vowel sound in the last word in a sing-song lilt.

Amicia gives him a solid shove in the shoulder back to his side of the cab. “No! I barely know him.”

“But you could _get_ to know him.”

“I’d rather not.”

A laugh shivers free from him, light and breathy. “Maybe I’ll get to know him.”

“You’re welcome to.” She considers mentioning Zara. Considers, then discards the idea.

Having thought of Zara, however, that still shot of her with arms around her blonde companion flickers behind her eyes and Amicia has to take a steadying breath to counter the dip her stomach makes. Has to clench her hands on the steering wheel to keep them from shaking, from driving them off the road.

She shakes her head to rid herself of the image and its accompanying feeling. It works. A little.

\--

By the time October rolls around, they’ve more or less settled into a routine.

Mélie has the one late class on Mondays, so Arthur is never home around dinner time; he’s decided he’d rather not wait on her and goes out to eat with some of the acquaintances he’s met in class. (And he makes damn sure to emphasise that they are _acquaintances_ and not friends. “I’m just using them for group projects and notes and shit like that,” he tells them. “Most of them are insufferable.”)

Buying groceries on the way home from her not-late Monday afternoon class, Amicia cooks something simple, usually spaghetti or the like and that takes up enough of her time that when Mélie gets back from her tutorial it’s ready to eat. And Mélie, bless her, always stops and picks up something for dessert.

Tuesdays only Arthur has class, and it’s an early one. Wednesdays they all have nothing to do, and then Thursdays and Fridays are absolutely slammed with lectures. Amicia doesn’t get back from lessons on Friday until nearly eight. And since Arthur is a menace in the kitchen, liable to blow up their entire building as make something vaguely edible, Mélie orders out for food; none of them want to clean dishes anyway.

So it’s Tuesday evenings that are best for the three of them. And, coincidentally, it’s Tuesday that Lucas has no classes. He has two in the afternoons on Wednesdays, but the point is he comes over and has dinner with them Tuesday nights, they all hang out, he sleeps on the couch, and then he heads directly for his class after sleeping late the next morning.

It is, quite frankly, the perfect set up.

“Instead of watching reruns of nineties sitcoms,” Lucas says one such Tuesday evening, slouched down low on the sofa, squished between Amicia and Arthur. “I could bring some board games over?”

“We have a Playstation,” Mélie reminds him. “Yours.” She has one arm across her face, blocking out the light of the television though Amicia doesn’t know if she’s attempting sleep.

“Yeah,” he whines. “It’s not the same.”

“We could get some new games,” Arthur suggests. “There are plenty of party games for consoles.”

“We could all chip in and buy something for Christmas,” Amicia offers.

Lucas makes this high pitched keening sound. “What if I just wanna play Cluedo?”

“There’s a movie for that,” Mélie grumbles.

“Bring some board games next week,” Amicia says. “We’ll see how we feel about it.”

He makes a few noncommittal noises in response, but the next week he sure does bring a bag stuffed with boxes of board games. Codenames, Catan, Pandemic, Monopoly; he’s brought seemingly most of his collection. And of course: Cluedo.

“Since there’s nobody more pale and tragic than me,” Mélie muses, stretching across the board to the pile of player pieces. “I guess I’m Mrs White.” But she also picks up Miss Scarlet and, with her crooked little smile, tosses the marker to Amicia.

Lucas places the professor’s purple piece by his corner (it might start simply because that’s the corner he was sitting at, and therefore the easiest to use, but afterwards he only ever plays with the good professor) and Arthur, laughing, scoops up Colonel Mustard.

It feels silly to have any sort of connection with tiny plastic playing pieces, but somehow that’s exactly what happens.

“The professor’s cheating!” Arthur declares fifteen minutes into their game. “There’s no way he can be ready to guess yet.”

“I’m not guessing,” Lucas denies. “But I have to get past here to the main hall.”

“Uh huh. Sure. A likely story.”

“Lucas doesn’t _cheat_, Arthur,” Mélie puts in, chewing the end of her pencil and frowning at her card. “He’s much too polite.”

“How come he always won Monopoly when we played, then?”

“Monopoly is a capitalist game, Arthur, we’ve talked about this,” Lucas grumbles, leaving the professor in the hall, not having enough squares to get inside. “It’s literally _about_ cheating.”

“Ah! But you admit it’s cheating!”

“It’s the bank that cheats,” Amicia says. “And you’re always the bank. So how come you don’t win?”

“He’s too good!”

“Not sure it’s a compliment to tell me I’m good at enabling the suffering of others to my own financial gain,” Lucas muses. “But I suppose at least that should mean I’m quite proficient at moving successfully through a lot of real world scenarios.”

Amicia gets to cross off the noose from her list on her turn, but Mélie has the very next go and she immediately pops into the basement and declares, “It was Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick,” in the most bored kind of declaration to ever exist.

And when Arthur pulls the cards from the case he throws them onto the table and lays a quivering finger at his sister. “So _you’re_ the cheat.”

She just shrugs. “Not my fault I can see everything Amicia crosses off.”

“Hey!”

“Well stop waving it around!” Mélie laughs, but it’s well-meaning. Nothing nasty about it. Amicia can tell from the twinkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the soft angle of her shoulders and the way she sways sideways to bump into her. “Sorry, princess.”

“No, you’re not. But that’s okay.”

Those are all the words she gets out before the full force of Mélie’s smile is directed at her from much closer than she was prepared for. And then all the usual things happen: her breath catches, her heart skips too many beats to be working properly, that warm coiling slithers around her stomach and the funny little hook in her ribs gives a sharp almost-but-not-quite-painful tug.

“You sure?” Mélie asks, voice low.

“Yes,” she whispers, eyes struggling to maintain contact. “I’ll just have to look at yours next time.”

Mélie’s smile widens, all sunlight and fondness. “You’re welcome to try.”

Tug. Tug. Tug.

One day, she’ll figure out where it’s leading her. But for right now, she has to tear her gaze from Mélie’s beaming face to shuffle the cards again.

And if Mélie makes something of a show of waving her checklist around, no one mentions it.

\--

The weeks pass like this, and the only marker that this week is different to any other is the colour of Zara’s hair.

She starts with blue.

“It’s all about that college experience, yeah?” she says, tossing her newly baby blue curls over her shoulder. “My folks never let me dye it.”

Their tutor pauses by them on the way into the room. “Excellent colour, Zara,” she says as she unlocks the door. “Good to get it out of your system now, too.”

They hitch their bags further onto their shoulders and follow her in. “Why’s that?”

“It’s not particularly professional to have brightly coloured candy-hair in courtrooms.”

She huffs, folding herself into a grumpy puddle on her usual seat. “Well that’s rude. Guess I have to have a spectrum plan, then.”

Their tutor laughs; Amicia shares a look with Brad, neither particularly sure what to make of that. But they should know better than to be confused. Despite having known Zara for a comparatively short time, she’s proven plenty that when she says she’s going to do something – no matter how stupid it seems – she’s almost certain to follow through.

So October is blue.

\--

November, she goes cotton-candy pink and wears it most often in a cloud of curls piled atop her head. She looks exactly like a carnival snack.

“Oh, hey, Amicia!” she calls, trotting across the street. When she gets close enough though, she frowns. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“Hm?” She looks down at herself, momentarily confused by Zara’s question. But no, yeah. That’s what she thought. “What am I… Oh. Yeah, I’m going to play tennis.” Only instead of her usual skirt and tank combo, she’s got warm tights on underneath and a long sleeve shirt.

Zara blinks. “You… play tennis?”

“Yeah?”

“Like… for a club?”

“No,” she laughs, “for fun. With friends.”

And _oh_ that was a mistake; Zara’s smile turns downright predatory. “Which friends?”

She sighs. “Arthur. Come on.”

“Yes!” she hisses, skipping after Amicia as she heads into the rec centre on the west side of campus. “You do this a lot?”

“Not as much as we used to. Been too busy with classes and assignments and stuff like that.”

“But you play often?”

She shrugs. “I mean, I guess so. We just prefer this to the gym. People are less judgemental.”

Zara hums, goes quiet for a minute, but when she pulls the door open for Amicia she asks, “What does Arthur study?”

“Computer science.”

And it’s honestly more than a little gratifying to see how her face falls. Not that she knows why simply sharing his major should do that.

“Hang on. He’s a nerd?”

“We’re all nerds, Zara,” she laughs.

Zara blows out her cheeks. “Sure, if you say so. But like…” she waves a hand at Amicia. “You’re a hot nerd.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Duh.” Again, she lapses into silence, following Amicia through the halls towards the big gymnasium-esque space at the back where the indoor tennis courts are. “How come you never get weird when I say shit like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I say a girl is hot.”

Amicia drops her bag onto one of the benches and unzips it, grabbing her racket and a pair of balls from inside. “I don’t know. Why would that bother me?”

With a roll of her eyes and a dramatic backwards swing, she leans all her weight onto her heels. “Straight girls get uncomfortable when a queer girl says something about how pretty she is. That’s just facts, de Rune.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” She scrunches her nose up but then smiles. “No. Doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, _good_,” Zara decides. “Because people are hot and they should know it.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

Zara whirls and even facing partly away from Amicia, she can see when her eyes go wide. Arthur’s wearing warm leggings too but his long sleeved shirt is rolled to the elbow; and today, he’s paired this outfit with his flirtiest smile and slightly tidier hair.

“Morning, Arthur.”

“Hey, Amicia,” he says, eyes twinkling happily. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Zara,” she replies, tucking the balls into her waistband. “And she’d rather be _your_ friend.”

His smile widens, showing his canines. “Oh really? We’ll have to see about that.” He swishes his racket, bounces on the balls of his feet. “Come on, let’s get going. I’m ready to trounce you.”

“No need to show off, Arthur. You _know_ when you show off, I beat you.”

“You’d like that,” he scoffs.

He shows off; tries to put spin on his serves, reaches for things he can’t quite get to, tries to lay too much heat into his returns, attempts backhands on the wrong side. It’s a shame, really. But that’s his fault and Amicia just smiles when she finishes crushing him.

“I’ll do you a rematch if you promise not to try any stupid trick shots,” she offers.

Waving her away, he slumps onto the bench beside Zara and – knowing both of them better to get too close – she chooses to wander off and poke her nose in elsewhere instead. She has no desire to third-wheel them.

Just outside the tennis courts is a wide expanse of what is clearly meant to be waxed floor for playing basketball. What she finds there instead is a collection of guys in some kind of jerseys in the midst of a truly violent game of dodgeball.

One of them screeches loudly, stepping quickly to the side to avoid a basketball and then he has to pick up his knees and step again as another comes swiftly on the whistling tail of the first. When the third one hits him in the knees, he stumbles sideways and nearly trips into Amicia but he catches himself just in time. He looks up at her, smiling apologetically, and wouldn’t you know? It’s Brad.

“Oh. Hey, de Rune,” he puffs, running a hand over his hair in a vain effort to keep it looking nicely spikey. “What are you…” His eyes drop and run up her body slowly in a way that she finds completely awful. “Huh. You’re here for something?”

Shuffling back a step and resisting the urge to adjust her skirt, she hooks a thumb behind her. “Playing tennis with Arthur.”

“Cool! Didn’t know you were sporty.”

“I’m not really. We just play for fun.”

He hunches a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Still. Come meet my rugby friends.”

Not knowing how to extract herself politely, she allows him to lead her over to the knot of broad-shouldered fellows. He does introduce them all by name, all eight of them, but as soon as she’s heard them they’re forgotten.

All she really thinks is, “Nine people doesn’t seem like a good number for playing dodgeball?”

“I don’t play,” says one guy. He’s a little softer around the edges. Perhaps not quite as tall as some of them, dark hair shaved almost to his skull, brown eyes warm in a way that’s not intent on anything, just kind. Something about him reminds her viscerally of a cow, not in a manner intended to be insulting, more just that he’s big and soft and kind.

Unlike the others, she feels no worry when she smiles at him. “Why not?”

“I have a recurring knee injury,” he explains. “So I just moderate.”

One of the others slings an arm around Brad and then they’re drawing away to get a new game started and Amicia follows this other guy to the sideline.

“Sorry,” she whispers, “what was your name?”

He laughs, deep and full of honest humour. “Rodric. I’m Rodric Fabron.”

“Amicia de Rune.”

His smile flickers a little. “Yes. Brad’s mentioned you. And Zara.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be. All he really told us is that he’s in quite a few classes with some very attractive young ladies.” His eyes cut away from her momentarily before he adds, very soft, “He’s right. But…”

Amicia’s smile tilts wider. “It’s okay. He can think what he likes, but I’m not interested.”

“Taken?”

She opens her mouth to deny it, to tell him she’s _just_ not interested, but instead what comes out is, “He’s not really my type.” And… she doesn’t know if it’s a lie or not.

Rodric fixes her with this _look_ at her words, as if he’s heard more in them than she intended him to. “Alright,” he says, and his tone confirms it. But she doesn’t ask what he means, what he thinks. It’s probably better not to.

One of the guys whistles, loud and shrill, to gain their attention. “Yo, we starting. Eyes up here.” The rest of them laugh raucously at his words, hearing a subtle hint at something crass, probably.

But Rodric smiles his gentle smile (placid, is the word that springs to mind) and mutters, “No offence, but you’re not my type, either.”

And that’s how she _knows_ those words are intended to carry an extra layer of meaning.

\--

Somewhere along the way, the finer details get lost but she hears through Mélie (mostly), Zara (the barest minimum) and Arthur (because he has no choice) how it goes:

After she had walked back to the tennis courts and found Arthur and Zara still using their mouths but no longer for talking, she’d pried her bag from under one of them and skedaddled. This had disrupted them enough that _they_ felt like they should go, too, and they bumped into Brad on the way out.

Zara had introduced them, Brad had done his spiel naming all his rugby friends, someone had said _something_ that Arthur found amusing and then they’d left.

Arthur had, however, in the midst of locating Zara’s tonsils, forgotten to pick up his racket, so he had to go back the next day to collect it. (He’s lucky it has his name on it.) While there, he’d run into Rodric again and they’d ended up having a fabulous conversation. So much so, that Rodric just sort of… walks to the bus stop with him, they go buy lunch, and then end up on the couch playing video games because that’s where they are when Mélie gets home twenty minutes later.

And that’s the story _she_ pries out of them when she demands who thought it was okay to leave Chinese boxes in the kitchen sink where they can get wet and soggy and gross.

So that’s how it _goes_.

What it means in a practical sense is that Arthur more or less adopts Rodric into his heart.

“The dude knows _so_ much random shit,” he says at dinner on Tuesday (so Lucas is present and has also been filled in on the wildness). “He’s here doing history and his primary interest is in crafting? Like. I just asked him a bunch of stupid questions about various crafts throughout history and he just… like he just _knows_ it.”

Which is really all he needs to say for Mélie to forgive them for the soggy Chinese thing. “He didn’t look like a history geek,” she says.

“What does a history geek look like?” Lucas asks.

“I don’t know. Me?” Mélie offers.

Arthur waves his fork around when he provides his explanation. “He got in on a sports’ scholarship, but he messed up his knee so they took it off him, but his grades were so good because he just picked shit he liked that they let him transfer all his credits over to a different degree and are letting him stay.”

“I take it you’ve made a new friend, then,” Amicia says around barely contained laughter.

“What’s not to like?”

Mélie sways sideways so she can whisper in a conspiratorial not-at-all-a-whisper, “I think Arthur has a crush.”

“Fuck you, I do not.”

“Maybe we can get to know him,” Lucas suggests. “Then we’d know if there’s something not to like.”

“Are you… thinking we invite him to games’ night or something?” Mélie says it around a mouthful of noodles so it comes out a little garbled, but they get the gist.

“Not if you’re going to eat like that,” Lucas informs her flatly.

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t know. Games’ night feels… like, sacred or something. It’s just the four of us. No one else.”

“No one we don’t trust properly,” Amicia finishes.

Bobbing his head, Lucas must agree with something in what they’ve mentioned. “Okay. That’s fair. But… Well, I still would like to meet him. I’m the only one who hasn’t.”

Arthur brightens at the prospect. “Maybe we could do something on the weekend?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

\--

So then there’s Rodric.

And despite meeting him through Brad, they all unanimously like him better. Starting with Mélie. Two of her classes are cancelled on Thursday and she shows up right around lunch outside Amicia’s lecture hall. She’s leaning on the railing attached to the wall directly across from the door, hands in her pockets, collar up but scarf loose, head tipped back a little to stare through the fabric of this reality into the next.

Predictably, that swishy warmth goes plunging through Amicia’s stomach leaving tingles and that softly painful tugging behind it. But there’s also that uncontrollable reaction to just seeing Mélie where Amicia beams at her, can’t control the urge to wrap her in a hug. “What are you doing here? You have classes?”

Smiling, Mélie brushes the whole thing off with, “The lecturer guy was in a motorcycle accident,” like… you know, like it’s nothing at all.

“Geez, is he okay?” Brad asks.

She shrugs. “Dunno. I assume he’s alive at least. Thought I’d come see if you wanted to have lunch, but…” Her eyes flick pointedly to Brad. “But I can head home if you have plans?”

Shaking her head, Amicia links their arms together. “Nonsense. Have lunch with us. This is Brad.”

“Hi. Mélie.” That’s really all the acknowledgement she gives him. “Good class?”

“Nah,” Brad says from Amicia’s left. “That woman is about as difficult to understand as it’s possible to get. I feel like everything she says contradicts everything else.”

“How annoying.”

“Yeah, she’s… not _great_,” Amicia agrees. “But we have the tutorial in an hour and that guy knows what he’s on about. Answers all the questions we’re left with after the lecture.”

“Maybe he should be giving the lectures then.”

Amicia’s eyes crinkle with the vibrancy of her smile. “We’ve told him that.”

Brad’s phone beeps before he can say anything else and, after checking the message, he grimaces apologetically. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. But I’ll be back before class. See you in a bit!” He skips back a step and offers them a half wave before he trots off in the general direction of the library.

Mélie exhales heavily. “Wow. I heard him say one thing and I’m annoyed. Where did you find American White Bread?”

Laughter bubbles free of her chest and she tugs Mélie half an inch closer by their arms. “His name is _Brad_.”

“Yeah. White Brad.”

“He’s one of Rodric’s friends.”

Mélie’s nose scrunches up. “No way. But Rodric has… personality.”

“I think you’ll find if you speak to him for longer than a second, that Brad has a personality too.”

“Is it being American?”

She laughs again, soft and shivery. “I mean, only _mostly_.”

Being poor, unemployed university students means they don’t eat at F-Block if they can help it, rather, they have left overs almost exclusively. And today that’s the remains of last night’s pasta. So they find a nice sunny patch of the gardens to sit in to do just that.

“Thanks,” Amicia whispers.

“For what?”

“Coming to visit. It’s nice. I feel like we don’t see enough of each other.”

Mélie grins at her. “Princess, we _live_ together.”

“Yeah, but we’re always at class or sleeping or something. Wish we had more time to just hang out, you know?”

Her smile fades to something a little smaller, less bright, but somehow it manages to squish more soft emotion into it anyway. “Yeah. I do. I’ll ditch class again if you want.”

“No, don’t do that. But this is nice.”

Almost, she wishes Mélie would just keep smiling at her like that and Brad wouldn’t return. But of course he does. And he brings Rodric with.

“Sorry. Rodric left his ID with me yesterday.”

“Can’t borrow books without it,” Rodric explains.

Mélie twitches forward, a little bit away from Amicia and she immediately hates the distance. “Right. You’re a history major, yeah?”

“Yes?”

“Favourite time period?”

He hums. “It’s either unpopular or a cliché, but I’m a big fan of the era right before industrialisation became a widespread thing in Europe.”

“Why?”

“I just feel like ingenuity in crafts was at its peak around then. People had mastered skills by this point but hadn’t yet found ways to remove human involvement in the actual making of things.”

Mélie’s smile widens again. It’s not like the smile she gives Amicia – doesn’t have a _patch_ on that one – but it’s genuinely friendly, something she shares with very few people. “Good answer.”

\--

Lucas does get to meet Rodric. But it’s mostly just happenstance that sees them all in the library at the same time. It’s one of those ‘one cancelled class, one early mark and a two hour break between lectures’ kind of things.

Rodric is already sitting at a table wedged in the back with all the dusty history stacks when Amicia slides around the corner looking for eighteenth century law provisions. (So she’s hugely lost, really.)

“Oh,” she mumbles, walking knees-first into the back of his chair. “Sorry, I’m… Oh, hey, Rodric.”

He tips his head back to look at her. “Hello, Amicia. What brings you here?”

“I think I got turned around in the psychology section.”

Using one foot to kick a chair out for her and patting the seat, he waves for her to join him. “Yeah, the psychology students are some of the worst for putting books back on the shelves they came from so that whole section is just…” he rolls his wrist around vaguely. “It’s just a mess.”

She laughs. He laughs.

They’re laughing when Lucas stumbles in, nose pressed almost to the paper of whatever list he’s reading. And when she calls, “Lucas?” he jumps fair out of his skin, drops the paper too.

“Geez,” he huffs. “What are you two doing here?”

He asks this question in a way that carries an implied ‘together, with whoever this guy is’ on the end and so Amicia rolls her eyes at him, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “Got lost,” she says drolly. “What’s your excuse?”

Stooping to collect his paper, his eyes flick over the spines of nearby books and then he breaks into a smile, sliding one out. “History of agriculture.”

Rodric’s head lolls in her direction. “Not lost.” She elbow him. But he just ignores her, pushes another chair out and says, “I’m Rodric. You another of Amicia’s weird friends?”

“Lucas,” he replies, sinking onto the very edge of the seat. “You’ve met both of the twins?”

“Yes?”

“Well… _they’re_ weird. I’m not.”

“You’re _so_ weird, Lucas,” Amicia tells him, smiling brilliantly. The warmth that sometimes flares up to remind her just how much she loves her friends burns a little brighter in her chest.

“Okay,” he drawls with an eyeroll. “I’m not _insufferable_.”

“That’s better.”

Rodric folds his arms across the desk in front of him, over the top of the spread of paper and open books he’s got in a heap. “Are you history or agriculture?”

“Chemisty,” Lucas replies, eyes twinkling at the look of utter befuddlement that takes over Rodric’s face. “But botany, mostly. It’s all… how do plants factor into the medications we make and how can we make them better?”

“Botanical engineering?”

He tips his head. “Yeah.” And lifts a hand to hold his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. “Plus a smidge of biochemistry.”

Rodric props his chin in one palm. “That’s impressive.”

Lucas shrugs, face tinting a medium crimson. “I like plants.”

“You’ll have to tell me what kinds of things you learn about old timey agriculture,” Rodric mutters, going back to his notes. “It’s not an area I’m brushed up on.”

Only Amicia sees the glitter in Lucas’ eyes at his words – an invitation to babble about his favourite topics. It’s how Rodric wins Lucas over.

\--

With Rodric, Mélie strikes up a strangely easy friendship. Some days when she has classes that finish in the mid-afternoon, she starts stopping at their campus to talk to Rodric before meeting up with Amicia to go home. That has a host of nice benefits to it, not least of which that sometimes they go to a diner to eat instead of cooking at home.

It’s even better when Lucas has lectures getting out at similar times because then the three of them get to spend time together (or four, if Rodric sticks around, which he usually doesn’t because he has some sort of sixth sense about over-stepping boundaries).

“Hey, Amicia.”

Grinning, she trots across the pavers, golden in the fading afternoon sunlight. “Hey. When did you get out?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Lucas says, falling into step beside her. “We finished all the presentations so there was no point in hanging around.”

“Valid. Have you seen Mélie?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t go to the garden, I came right here.”

“You have time for dinner this evening or are you going home?”

“I’m going home, sorry. But I wanted to catch up about the weekend. Are you still coming to our place?”

Their conversation pauses while they cross the service road; it’s rarely used and almost never by anyone but the campus workmen and security, but better safe than sorry. “Yes. I am. I think Mélie is as well, but I’ll have to double check with Arthur.”

“Is he busy?”

“Only with revision. I’ll try to convince him to take a break, but he’s swamped in readings this week.”

“Alright. If he needs it, then he should focus on that.”

She bumps into his shoulder, a laugh threatening to spill forth. “I believe I used to tell you to take study breaks. It’s healthier. And I’ll give him the same advice.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

The garden – which is really just a patch of grass and plants dropped in a section of the campus that was too weirdly shaped to build anything on, and probably too small to be practical besides – is where they always meet up with each other after classes if there’s more than two of them. It saves moseying around between buildings to collect friends like some twisted game of Katamari Damacy. When Lucas and Amicia stroll from the pavement onto the green, it’s not that hard to pick out Mélie on the bench by their usual tree. She’s sitting with Rodric, several inches between them, but both angled towards each other, clearly in the middle of a conversation.

And it’s a conversation that they catch the tail end of since they come up behind them.

“… it go away?” Mélie’s asking.

“Um… Not really.”

“How did you get past it, then?”

“I um, well… I haven’t. But I think the answer is to take a step back, find someone else, try your hand at letting go. Stop waiting.” Rodric leans out, rests an elbow on the back of the bench. “I’ll let you know if I figure it out.”

“Please.”

Amicia steps around the end of the bench and drops down beside Mélie who jumps about a foot off the seat. “Hey.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mélie gasps. “You mind?”

“Not at all,” she laughs. “What are we talking about?”

Rodric opens his mouth but Mélie glares at him and blurts, “Making friends is hard. We’re commiserating.”

“Oh… yeah.”

They’re not especially convincing, but Amicia lets it slide. If it’s important, Mélie will share when she’s ready. “Are you hanging with us this evening, Rodric?” she asks instead.

He leans forward, one elbow over a knee. “Nah. Brad and his friends are going to the bar and I’m gonna tag along.”

“Not into bars?” Lucas wonders, slipping onto the bench’s uncomfortable metal arm.

“Not really,” he says, smiling. “But it’s good to be social.”

With an over-exaggerated eyeroll, Mélie tips sideways into Amicia so she can properly fix Rodric with her incredulous arched eyebrow. “Socialising is overrated.”

“If you have to go to a bar to socialise,” Lucas says slowly, “I think I’m not particularly interested in socialising.”

Laughing, Rodric stands, checking the time on his phone. “I should head if I wanna make my bus. Was nice catching up, Mélie,” he adds with a tip of his head. “Might see you guys around?”

“Sooner rather than later, probably,” Mélie replies. “Have fun.”

He gives a flick of his wrist in farewell and ambles off, allowing Lucas to slide properly onto the bench. “I should probably go too.”

“You’re not hanging this evening?”

“Sorry, no. But ask your brother if he’s coming to dinner on Saturday.”

“He is,” Mélie tells him, settling further into the chair, throwing one elbow up onto the back. “Even if he thinks he’s not, he’ll be there. We’ll drag him.”

Lucas’ face splits into a wide grin. “Thanks.” Then he bounces to his feet, hitches his bag across both shoulders. “I’ll see you guys then!”

“Bye,” they chorus.

Once he’s disappeared around the campus shuttle stop, Mélie rolls her head around to look at her. “So. Are we cooking or ordering out?”

“Oh please, I am _not_ in the mood for doing dishes.”

“Chinese it is.”

Amicia shuffles a little, leaning into her side. “Girls’ night, huh?”

“Seems like it. You can pick the movie.”

“We’ll stop at the store and grab some snacks? I think that caramel ice cream you like is still available.”

She feels how Mélie shifts beside her and immediately, even though she can’t _see_ it, knows how her eyes have lit up with that brilliantly warm sparkle, the soft one that tickles at her ribs. “Yes,” she breathes. “You’re the _best_.”

Amicia gives a half-hearted (and handicapped due to her position which she’s loathe to shift from) toss of her hair. “I do try.”

“It’s not fair to make ice cream flavours limited edition,” she huffs, rocking up to her feet and drawing Amicia with. Her hands are soft and warm and when she stumbles after, Amicia ends up slightly closer than she strictly needs to, but she makes no move to back away. “That’s just cruel.”

“We’d better stock up then,” Amicia whispers, gaze flicking between Mélie’s eyes.

And the glitter sharpens, turns into a proper constellation of blue stars. “Seriously,” Mélie sighs, linking their arms together and leading Amicia off down the road towards the store. “You are literally perfect.”

She smiles, wide and bright and uncontainable, her usual reaction to being near Mélie. And there’s also the swooping in her stomach, the one that makes her tug Mélie closer, hold her there. The best part? Is the luminous smile Amicia gets in response. It makes her feel… _infinite_.

\--

Over the Christmas period, they get an extra week off from classes. Which they desperately, desperately need because in the lead up _to_ Christmas they are subjected to an honestly offensive amount of assessments. It’s exhausting.

Zara’s hair, when Amicia arrives for their last tutorial before exam block, has been dyed an orange-blonde, and her voice is too piercing for the hour of the morning.

“Hey, de Rune!” Zara throws herself like a blanket, wrapping around her arm. “So I know there’s still like two weeks left of exams and shit, _but_…”

“Miss me with the ominous tone, Zara, thanks. It’s too early for that.”

Swinging off Amicia’s arm, Zara stands right in her path, preventing her from entering the room. “Christmas party? You coming?”

“Probably not.”

“Let me rephrase,” she backtracks, waving a hand. “Will _Arthur_ be coming?”

“Probably.” She sighs. “And I’ll be designated drivering him, too, no doubt.”

“Maybe you can drop me off after our exam then?” she asks with wiggling eyebrows.

“It’s _that_ Friday?” Just the thought of it makes her boneweary. “Don’t waste any time, huh?”

She shrugs. “Most of us are going home to family, gotta get it out of the way.” Finally, she ducks backwards into the classroom so Amicia can enter too. “Also, hey, what’s Arthurs’ _deal_ exactly?”

Sinking into her usual seat but with marginally more of an old-lady creak to her knees, she asks, “What do you mean?”

The room is mostly empty; the number of students who bother to show up to these things dwindled every week until is was just a handful of the most dedicated. Amicia gets the _distinct_ feeling, however, that even had the room been packed with the eighteen or twenty students on the roster, she would’ve said the exact same thing: “Like, he just makes out with me at the rec centre that time and now he won’t talk to me. What’s up with that?”

She pauses in the act of opening her notebook (that she probably won’t use anyway) and blinks over at her. “Oh. He’s just like that.” Amicia goes back to finding her page. “He doesn’t… _date_, so much. Just like, casually.”

Zara is quiet for so long that she looks up again, thinking maybe she’s confused, but instead Amicia sees their weird appraising expression. There’s a faint crinkle to her eyebrows, a little tilt to her lips. “He… doesn’t _date_?”

“Not for years.”

She bursts out laughing. “He’s like eighteen! You say that like he’s been through an emotional wringer!”

Amicia _feels_ when her expression compresses, like every muscle in her face simultaneously tries to withdraw through her skin, past her skull, and into the void behind it. She has no idea what Zara reads in that, but her smile is sad.

“Oh. Okay. So, I shouldn’t… pursue… that…?”

“I mean, you can if you want. Just… be ready for him to distance himself, I guess.”

Zara hums, fiddles with the edge of her notebook without opening it, face falling away from a smile and into something more thoughtful. Then she brightens. “Will you still drop me off at the party after our exam?”

“Sure, Zara.”

And that’s how she ends up staring at the unswept pavers outside some house or other a few blocks from campus, a narrow yard between the front door and the little fence is already littered with crumpled cups and lids off bottles. From inside, the heavy thud of music playing more loudly than intended through speakers that can’t quite handle the bass.

Zara had _not_ waited for her to drive, but Amicia still had to drop Arthur off and he darts out of the car as soon as she’s parked, already hollering for someone he recognises.

“No, it’s fine, Arthur,” she says as she gets out of the car. “You leave your phone here, it’ll be alright. Not like you’ll have to text me later.”

And when she opens the door to be assailed by the humidity and volume, who else but Zara is there behind it. She’s wearing this blue floral button up and Amicia is struck by this _thought_ that Mélie owns the same shirt. She’s not sure why that’s important; isn’t even sure it’s really Mélie’s. It could be hers and Mélie just stole it. Whatever. What she thinks about when Zara meets her at the oor is Mélie. That seems like it might mean something, but Zara beams at her brightly, hauls her inside by the elbow, presses a cup into her hand and she understands that thinking isn’t what parties are for so she’s going to try and not do any more of that.

“I’m not _staying_, Zara.”

She is ignored completely. Instead of being permitted to deliver the phone and leave, Zara – who appears to be more than a little bit on her way past tipsy – pulls her past into the house and guides her to the living room before pressing her onto the couch.

“Yes, you are. Just hang out for a little while.”

“I only have to give Arthur his phone,” she protests.

She rolls her eyes and pops a hip. “I’ll find Arthur. You stay put.”

Amicia frowns at her but before she can argue further, Zara is off, disappearing into the crowd. She puts the drink on the table beside the chair and leans back into it, sighing.

It’s loud, it’s hot, and there’s really not enough light in the room so she has to squint to make anything out. Very likely she knows more than a few people here, but the dimness and squish of bodies makes it hard to tell. Which is fine, really, it’s not like she’s after a conversation.

Arthur, bouncing down onto the cushion beside her, does find her at one point: “Hey, Amicia! Didn’t think you’d stay!” He has a drink in one hand, and despite the innocuous appearance of the liquid, it clearly has a kick to it.

“I’d rather not.” She slaps the phone against his chest. “Keep this safe.”

“Oh.” His free hand comes up to cradle it. “Where did I leave this?”

“In my car.”

“Huh.” He shoots her a big grin, teeth flashing in the low light, cheeks flushed from drink, and he sways across the chair to smack a loud kiss against her cheek. “Thanks, Amicia.”

“No worries, Arthur,” she says, trying to inject a bit of annoyance into her tone and failing. He springs out of the chair and ambles off while she scrubs at the sticky residue he left on her face.

Before she has a chance to do more than shake her head at him, something flashes orange in the corner of her eyes and her heart thuds painfully. With a snap of her neck that should probably cause her pain, she whips around, trying to pick out the colour that caught her attention. Just a flurry of red hair, but surely it’s not Mélie; she’s not the only redhead who could be here. Right? It’s probably just Arthur, in fact.

Amicia loses the flash and goes back to looking at her own phone, texting her father that yes, actually, she will be coming home for Christmas and no, she’s not being irresponsible with her time or anything like that. (Best not to mention where she is at the moment or why, really.) It’s easy enough, much to her surprise, to get wrapped up in what she’s doing and even the pounding music fades into a dull future-headache at the base of her skull.

Consequently, she misses the details of _who_ sneaks up to her. Instead, all she sees is the familiar blue of a shirt that swishes into her vision before it’s succeeded by a cloud of reddish hair and the next thing she knows, someone has thrown a leg over hers and is straddling her lap. And she has exactly _zero_ time to process that before she’s being kissed.

At first all she can feel is the lips on hers, the heady fruit taste of whatever this person has been drinking. But then… then there are _other_ things creeping into her awareness: the softness of their mouth; the hand curling around her jaw; the heavy thudding of her heart in her ears, her chest; the warmth that rolls through her like a wave that never thinks to recede. She thinks of the red hair, feels it brush against her face; thinks of the blue shirt as she winds her fingers into the hem; she thinks of _Mélie_.

And the beating of her heart turns into something that can probably be better described as a throb as it surges through her vein, crawls across every inch of her skin, urges her to pull whoever this is (that is maybe Mélie, her best friend, _Mélie_) closer and part her lips. Maybe-Mélie makes this _noise_ in the back of her throat, a groan or something like it, and instead of liquid flooding through her, now it’s a wildfire, searing from her heart with every beat until it puddles low in her belly, crackling and fierce.

Vaguely she’s aware of how the person in her lap _shifts_, hips moving just slightly to one side, but _hell_ if that doesn’t do something to her. It’s almost embarrassing, actually, how she jolts forward, breath stuttering in her throat. And, of course, that ruins everything because their teeth clack and she nearly tips the Maybe-Mélie off her lap onto the floor and when she leans away to breathe (because holy shit she needs to fucking _breathe_), it’s not Mélie after all.

“Who knew you had _that_ in you, de Rune,” Zara teases. Her lips are a darker red than her cheeks, but not as dark as her eyes or the smile that curves her mouth up at the edges. Her dyed-orange hair falls around her ears, into her face and that’s when Amicia realises (realises with a vicious, awful _lurch_ in her chest) what just happened.

She winks, but Amicia flinches back into the sofa cushions and Zara must read something akin to horror on her face because she just laughs, stands. Actually, she barely bats an eyelid at her reaction, turns to find the nearest guy (who, Amicia is just becoming cognizant enough to realise, has wolf-whistled at them) and clench a fist into his shirt-front, dragging him away.

It takes a while for Amicia’s heart to calm down, for the hot pulses coursing along every nerve she owns to dwindle, but when they do, _that’s_ when it hits her: Zara had kissed her, and she’d thought it was Mélie. And she’d _reacted_ to the idea that it was Mélie.

Suddenly, the air in the room is too hot, too close, too thick with sweat and alcohol and the headache inducing music and she can’t _breathe_. Everything closes in around her, every deep bass beat crushes her a little more and she has to escape, she can’t stay any longer, needs to be anywhere other than here.

Outside.

Outside would be ideal.

She shoves her way through the throng of bodies and bursts out into the night air, sucking in a deep gulp of the brisk evening. Then another. And a third.

Her knees give out. She sinks slowly, wobbly, onto the curb and presses her palms to the cold concrete. Her heart keeps hammering away at her ribs, but not with the _heat_ from before, no. No, now it’s a lot more like fear and confusion and anxiety all battling to see who can give her a complex first.

When she lifts her hands to drop her face into her palms, they shake so badly she almost misses. Why? Why… Amicia isn’t even sure what she’s asking that _about_. Why what? Why had she reacted to that the way she had? Why _Mélie_ specifically? Does it change something?

And perhaps most importantly: why had she enjoyed it?

She’s still sitting on the curb an hour later – butt cold and numb – when Arthur emerges, flushed and wavering with every step, to head home. Amicia can honestly say she’s grateful for his level of intoxication because it means he doesn’t notice the way her fingers tremble on the wheel, her hesitation when they’re parked and how she nearly can’t get the key into the lock.

He doesn’t notice how she can’t quite make eye contact with Mélie (who sat up waiting for them to get back) and he therefore doesn’t comment. If Mélie thinks anything of it, she doesn’t say so.

In fact, all she says is, “Wow, you two look like shit. Get some sleep.”

Arthur does. He falls asleep the second Amicia guides him to his room and he flops face-first onto the mattress. She doesn’t have as much luck, lying awake until nearly three in the morning and what rest she gets after that is spotty at best.

It’s… It’s fine.

She’s _fine_.

But in the morning Mélie smiles at her when she stumbles bleary eyed and barely-rested into the kitchen for tea and that flickering firelight from the night before flares higher. It burns in her stomach, kicks her heart into high gear again.

(She’s maybe not fine.)

\--

“We still okay to have Christmas at your place, princess?”

Mélie’s voice is soft – soft like the snow falling against their kitchen window – but Amicia is so caught up in her head, standing at the sink with her tea cup forgotten in one hand as she stares at the soapy water, that her words still come as a huge surprise and she jumps. Thank god for the water in the sink, actually, or her cup would’ve shattered when she dropped it.

“Sorry,” Mélie mutters. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Turning, Amicia finds her leaning against the island bench, hands in the pockets of her hoodie, head tilted with curiosity but smile patient. Her stomach clenches with something that burns, the smoke rises, sticks in her lungs and leaves a lump in her throat. She coughs, trying to expel the imaginary fumes and regain the ability to speak. It helps, marginally; but just _looking_ at Mélie reminds her of the Christmas party and the white-hot ore that had throbbed through her veins in place of blood and she feels her face heat in response.

“Uh… Just tired, I guess,” she deflects. “It’s what I get for being up at seven on a weekend.”

And Mélie laughs, accepts her unconvincing explanation. “And Christmas?”

“Of course you’re invited,” she says, returning to her contemplation of the dish water. “Welcome to stay for your birthday, too.”

“Thanks, but Arthur and I have plans,” she replies. “Just the two of us.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Have some family time. We’ll see you after.”

Instinct drives her to turn again, watch as Mélie leaves the room. And then she’s so fixated on these stupid little details – the mess of her hair pulled into a loose bun, the stretch of the hoodie across her shoulders and how the sleeves bunch around her elbows where they’ve been pushed up, the frayed hems of her shorts where they cut off half way down her thighs – too focused on those and the weird way her heart starts beating again in that rushed manner, too focused to notice that she’s holding her tea cup filled with soapy water over the floor. Too distracted to realise it’s _half full_ and dripping until her wrist relaxes the barest bit further and suddenly her feet are _wet_.

She staggers away, nearly drops her cup again when her heel slips.

With a sigh, she sploshes it back into the sink. Great. Now she has to clean _this_ up. At least this should be easier than sorting through the cluttered tangle of her emotions, figuring out what’s going on in there, and tidying the whole horrible mess up.

God knows how long _that_ will take.

\--

Turns out, what she really, desperately needs is just a bit of time to herself.

And by ‘herself’ what she means is ‘free of Mélie and her distracting smile’. The moment she steps through her parents’ front door, she’s assaulted by her brother.

“Amicia!” Hugo squeals. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” she laughs. He’s a little big now for her to pick up but she does her best, squeezing him around the middle and lifting until he screams and wriggles free. “You ready for Christmas?”

He snatches her hand up and drags her into the house proper, hissing, “Yes!” with this quirky little conspiratorial lift to his eyebrows. “Mummy thinks she’s hid the presents well but I know where she keeps them.”

Amicia offers a mock gasp. “And did you go through them all?”

“No!” he giggles. “But now I know it’s not Santa who gives us presents at night. He delivers them earlier in the year and mummy and daddy have to keep them safe.”

Laughter tumbles from low in her chest and she bends over to give him a proper hug. Then he’s squealing again, slipping free and skipping into the kitchen in a gale of laughter.

Once she gets past the obligatory questions: “How are your classes?” and “Where are the twins? Aren’t they coming over for the holidays this year?” and “You’ve been eating well, I hope?” and from Hugo, “When can I come visit?” the return home settles around her shoulders just as the hug from her father had earlier. It’s a relief.

Realising she won’t have to share a bed with Mélie sends a sigh jettisoning from between her teeth up at her ceiling. She doesn’t have to share. Not _yet_. But when Mélie and Arthur arrive for Christmas they will.

Simply thinking that has a coil of bubbling warm swirling between her ribs and that awful fish hook snags at the lining of her ribs, makes it hard to breathe. But there’s something else too, it crawls up her throat and knots her intestines and itches like the moment before a good cry. She doesn’t sleep much that first night, too busy dwelling on… on everything; replaying the party with Zara, the way just _thinking_ about Mélie lately has created this impossible quagmire of emotion, and – importantly – untangling them all from each other.

Her eyes are grainy as she sits at her old desk, elbows on the wood, wrapped lossely in her blanket and staring out the window at the hazy dawn light just beginning to light the edges of the roofs. Heart hanging heavily in her chest, Amicia puts a name to the uncomfortable lead coating lining all her insides: guilt.

She feels _guilt_.

Because when Zara kissed her, she imagined Mélie instead and that’s… too much for her tired brain to deal with. She shouldn’t have.

Amicia creaks back to her bed and curls up, cries into her pillow until she exhausts herself properly and falls asleep just after the sun rises.

\--

Christmas is… well, it’s hard this year.

Her mother cooks a cake (even though that doesn’t really fit the theme) and when Mélie and Arthur arrive, she insists they have a birthday dinner despite having missed that actual occasion by several days. The twins love it, and it’s so easy to get caught up in their good cheer, in Arthur’s jokes about how the de Runes are better family than their parents. And it’s nice that he can joke about it, even if Robert’s face does harden every time.

It’s easy to get lost in her head when Mélie smiles, to remember that they’re best friends and succumb to the teasing.

Lucas and Laurentius spend Christmas day with them too. “The more the merrier,” Beatrice tells them when they arrive looking as if they weren’t sure they’d be welcome.

And that’s so true. With everyone crammed into their kitchen, laughing and chatting and just being so _good_ and _warm_, filling her chest with that fondness she’s so familiar with, it’s a lot less complicated.

But then, duh, everyone leaves and the clean up is finished and Hugo is helping Arthur build their usual pillow fort in the living room so Amicia retreats upstairs and she has to confront very suddenly that Mélie _shares her room_. She always does, it’s no big deal. Only now she’s having trouble keeping her breathing even and if she keeps sucking it in like this she’ll hyperventilate, wouldn’t that be grand?

It’s _fine_. It’s just_ Mélie_. (As if Mélie has ever been _just_ anything in her life, something Amicia is starting to realise might be the source of the problem.)

She barely has her breathing under control when Mélie pushes the door open with a teasing, “You better be decent.”

And her laugh comes out thin, high pitched. “Yeah.” Her voice cracks. Great.

Mélie pushes the door closed behind her and Amicia just fucking _stares_ at her. Like a complete idiot. She’s wearing a stupidly patterned Christmas sweater (it matches Arthur’s) and a scarf Amicia bought her and these really soft looking pants and she’s just…

_Fuck_.

Also, she’s really observant, which sucks. “You alright, Amicia? You look… pale.”

“I’m…” Her voice cuts off abruptly when her heart clambers up her windpipe to hang out in her throat. It gives her a moment to concoct a shitty excuse though, so there’s that. “Yeah, no. I feel a bit… queasy.”

“Keep it to yourself.” There’s a note of cheerful teasing in her tone, but the bright glimmering in her eyes is distinctly worried.

“I um… I might sleep in Hugo’s bed, actually. You use this one. Don’t want you getting sick.”

“How thoughtful.”

But Mélie’s between her and escape, so when she makes to leave, sticking her shaking hands in her pockets, it’s easy for her to slip fingers into her elbow. “You sure you’re alright?”

She offers the best approximation of a smile she can manage. “I’ll be fine. Probably just got up too early today.”

Mélie’s answering smile doesn’t _quite_ suggest that she’s believed. Fair. It’s not her best lie.

Still, she squeezes Amicia’s arm. “Get some good sleep then, please.”

“Do my best.”

She doesn’t.

She’s not surprised.

\--

At least she doesn’t have to worry about sharing space with Mélie when they get back to their flat. Sure, she still sees her around literally all the time what with _living together_ and all, but even if it requires some truly impressive social acrobatics, Amicia can manage to minimise the amount of times she has to look her in the face and wrestle her heart out of her ears to do it’s damn job properly.

And, god bless her, Mélie makes it easy on her.

“Madeleine from my impressionist class is meeting me at the gallery this afternoon,” she says over breakfast. (Breakfast which might as well be lunch it’s so late in the morning.) “Do you wanna meet up at the café after? Since Arthur won’t be with us tonight, we could go get dinner somewhere?”

And well now, doesn’t _that_ question do something squirly to her insides. “Uh, sure, yeah that sounds nice.” Vaguely, she remembers to actually drink her tea rather than just keep stirring it. “Where is Arthur going?”

She shrugs. “Out with Lucas, he said.”

“Boys’ night?”

Mélie gives a shivery laugh that sends a tingle down Amicia’s spine in response. “Guess we have to have a girls’ night to keep it fair.”

“I guess so. Maybe we could catch a movie after?”

“Yeah,” says Mélie, lifting her eyes from her coffee so Amicia can be hit with all ten thousand little stars twinkling in them. “Sounds like a plan.”

And sure, she’s _still_ thinking about those stars and how dazed they left her four hours later when she’s walking down the street to the café. (They all call it _the_ café as if there’s only one in the whole area. Maybe it is to them, it’s not like they ever go anywhere else.) Being a little lost in her head as she is, Amicia probably shouldn’t be surprised to realise she’s walked completely past the café and made it to the end of the block.

She might’ve kept walking, too, if the crossing light hadn’t been red.

Thankfully, she wakes from her stupor before she ends up half-way across town and wanders back to the café; she didn’t miss it by much. It has a quaint dangling open sign that often gets flipped to closed like an hour before it actually closes just to dissuade last minute customers but through the big windows Amicia can see plenty of people sitting at booths and even a modest queue so she’s not pushing it too late. Maybe she even has time for a hot chocolate.

When she pushes the door in it tinkles happily; the interior reflects its owner in the quaint and borderline-retro tiling and upholstering, but it’s warm and inviting and off the main road so it tends to be less well-frequented than more mainstream cafes. Her gaze skips over the patrons until she spots Mélie’s familiar shape in one corner at a booth.

She’s not alone. Across from her is a woman leaning on her elbows across the tabletop, coffee seeming mostly forgotten; her eyes are intense behind her rectangular steel glasses and her blonde hair is pulled messily back into a half-hearted tail on top of her head. Amicia doesn’t know if this is Madeleine or one of the other people Mélie has occasionally mentioned, she hasn’t met many of her classmates. Somewhere in the recesses of her brain she remembers Mélie mentioning a Roxanne as well, could be her.

Either way, just watching the way this girl angles herself towards Mélie causes a spike of something hot and painful to lance through her, low in her gut, and from it rise these acidic fumes, up into the cavern of her ribs. They gum everything together, itch at her lungs, make it hard to breathe; tendrils of sour stickiness web up her heart and squeeze until the thorns pierce right through the muscle and blood oozes from the gaps. Amicia isn’t _stupid_, she squishes at the feeling, tromps it down, knowing what jealousy feels like and not enjoying it right now in this moment at all.

The worst part is understanding _why_ the feeling flares painfully through her: this blonde girl is leaning forward like that, looking at Mélie like that, for only one reason that she can think of. It shouldn’t hurt. But it does.

Still, she takes a deep breath before making her way over. And if she chooses to sit beside Mélie and do so closer than she normally would (than she maybe _should_) it’s only because she doesn’t want to trap this girl in the end of the booth. If she can leave, maybe she’ll do that. Amicia hopes she does that.

And when Mélie feels her settle in, she turns to her, eyes bright and smile the usual earnest and crooked that chases some of that awful jealous twinge from her stomach and replaces it with the burbling liquid sunlight feeling. It’s an improvement, but also it makes her squirm so it’s not _that_ much of an improvement.

“Amicia,” she greets and that one word is like being hugged. “This is Maddie.”

It’s hard to look away from Mélie, isn’t sure how she does it, she deserves a medal. When she does, Madeleine says, “_Oh_,” in this _way_ that speaks of whatever conversation they were just having and how she very clearly featured in it. Madeleine’s eyes are pointed as she gives Amicia a once over and her smile changes slightly as she leans away. “Oh. Yeah. I get it. Nice to meet you.”

“Get what?”

“All my friends are nerds,” Mélie says, but Amicia’s still watching Madeleine’s face and in it she can read the likelihood of a lie. “But none of you _look_ like nerds.” She guestures to her friend. “Whereas Maddie just straight up dresses for nerd-dom.”

Maybe. Amicia gives her outfit a proper look and, sure, it’s the comfortable hoodie/track pant combo of the weary university student; but the hoodie is the kind of quality that nearly edges it out of the hoodie category and the pants are fitted in a manner reminisce of jeans. So nerd-dom? Maybe, on a technicality only.

“I’m not at peak nerd at the moment,” Madeleine laughs when Amicia lifts a disbelieving eyebrow. “Don’t let it fool you.” She shuffles along to the end of the booth, eyes fixing back on Mélie and never wavering. “I should go,” she adds (and Amicia does her best not to outwardly show her relief), voice soft and intent in a way that reminds her viscerally of the spike of hot jealousy from before and she has to quench that too. Madeleine’s voice drops further when she says, “I had a really great day, Mélie. Maybe we could do this again sometime?”

The way Mélie smiles back is mostly polite but try telling that to the squirming jealousy worms in her stomach. “Yeah. Yeah that sounds good.”

As she’s leaving, Madeleine throws a, “Good luck!” over her shoulder and then Amicia (confused about that) isn’t sure whether she should stay where she is or move to the other side of the booth or what.

Rather than wondering about that too hard, she rotates until she’s mostly facing Mélie. And instead of waiting for Mélie to ask her to move she says, “She’s into you, Mélie.”

That produces a rapid-fire burst of laughter and she twists at the waist too so she can properly fix Amicia with that big sunshine grin. “Yeah. I know. Apparently, she got sick of waiting for me to notice her flirting.”

The worms tangle together unhappily. “And?”

When she shrugs, the worms settle down a little bit. “And nothing.”

She _hates_ how pleased she is with that response, how her heart thumps just a bit harder. Hates too that she says, “Mélie,” in the driest tone she can manage. “She’s _so_ pretty.”

“Yeah. But I… She doesn’t…” Her lips twist together wryly. “She doesn’t need my baggage, but maybe… later. Maybe some other time.”

“Mélie,” she mutters, frowning, sliding a half-inch closer. “What baggage? We’re not even twenty.”

“It’s nothing.”

She hunches her shoulders up around her ears and tries to turn away but Amicia takes her hand, doesn’t let her. “It’s not nothing.”

Mélie rolls her eyes. “It really is nothing. She just… deserves someone who isn’t distracted, someone who’s all in, you know? That’s all. So I told her maybe when I get over myself. It’s gotta happen some time.”

That takes a little moment to process and it comes with, firstly, a bit of dumb blinking, then a pang of realisation that shoots through her ribs, and finally, those jealous worms start wiggling more again. By some miracle, Amicia manages to keep all that out of her voice when she smiles, leans into her, “You have eyes for someone, huh?” The smile is probably high key fake, but Mélie either doesn’t notice, or is too busy thinking about something else to be bothered by it.

“Yeah,” she huffs, bumping sideways into Amicia’s shoulder. “It’s no big deal though. I’ll get over it.”

“Is getting over it important? Couldn’t you ask her out or something?”

Mélie snorts a laugh. “Pretty sure she’s straight, princess, but thanks. I feel like it’s a right of passage to becoming an adult lesbian anyway, you know?”

“Oh. Oh, Mélie.”

She shrugs again. “It’s fine. Like I said: I’ll get over it.”

“There’s gotta be a good way to deal with that, right? Why not go out with Maddie, could that help?”

“It could.” Mélie lifts just one shoulder this time. “But it’s not very fair to her. Rodric says the best cure is distance but…” The other shoulder joins the first with a grimace. “It’s fine. I’ll manage.”

Amicia wants to offer more help, wants to ask why distance is something she seems so reluctant about, but mostly she just wants the thorny worms to leave her alone. Just because Mélie has feelings for someone doesn’t mean anything – it _shouldn’t_ mean anything to her. But it does; and it means a little relief, a little of the sour sting of jealousy, wants to know who it _is_ (who it is because it isn’t her and she _hates_ that; hates that she hates that – it’s a complex maze, her emotions in this moment).

“You’re not…” Mélie pulls away from her a fraction, eyes narrowed slightly, wary. “You’re not gonna ask who it is, right? I feel like that’s…”

“No, Mélie,” she hastens to assure her. “No. I’m not going to ask that. It doesn’t matter.”

The wariness lingers a beat more before fading, and with it, Mélie exhales. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Always being so…” she waves a hand vaguely. “Being so cool about all this. Always thought you’d freak out.”

Despite the worms chewing on her intestines, trying to replace them maybe, Amicia smiles – the warmest and most genuine smile she can conjure in that moment – and sways over to bump their shoulders together. “Hey. I told you I’d be here to listen when you found someone to gush about, yeah? And I meant it.”

Her shoulders drop and her features go slack before her crooked smile blooms over the top. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Thanks. I think I’ll hold off on the gushing until I’ve found someone who can gush back, though, if that’s fine.”

She scoots across the chair to hook their arms together. “Of course.” But (stupidly) she dips her head a little so she can impart the next words (also stupid) a little softer, “Though, frankly? Any girl would be lucky to have you. And whoever this girl is… well, she’s stupid.” (Also Amicia is stupid. So very fucking stupid.)

Mélie goes red. “Thanks. Don’t think I’m gonna tell her that, though.”

“I’ll tell her,” Amicia says brightly and immediately regrets it because _fuck_, she doesn’t want to try and convince a girl to date Mélie. Not because she thinks it’d be hard but perhaps because it _wouldn’t_.

“God, _no_. Please.”

Luckily, Mélie laughs and it only takes a second for Amicia to join in. “Should I be offended?”

“No, I just… I’d rather straight girls not know when I’m attracted to them, thank you very much.”

“Okay, okay. That’s fair.” Letting Mélie go, she slips off the end of the booth and extends a hand. “About that movie?”

“Dinner first, yeah? I’m hungry.”

She takes Amicia’s hand, palm smooth and warm against hers. Amicia holds it tightly, thinks maybe she would never let her go if that was possible. (And _fuck_ that’s a scary thought, holy damn.) But her eyes are twinkling and her smile is soft and _home_ and everything is fine.

“Dinner first.”

Mélie is her best friend.

And she is _not_ having a mild crisis of being attracted to her best friend.

Everything is _fine_.


	4. Chapter 4

Update: everything is _not_ fine.

She spends the next three or four weeks pretending to herself that she’s fine and this whole sequence of bullshittery will pass. And she’s so focused on pretending this that she doesn’t really notice that those weeks have passed until they have and then suddenly it’s _March_ (and Zara’s hair is blue again, but a different shade this time) and she’s still plagued by _Feelings™_ whenever she looks at Mélie (which is a lot because she can’t help herself) and there’s still a fish hook in her chest preventing her from getting too far away from Mélie (which she doesn’t want to do anyway) and yeah. It’s a whole thing and she’s not fine. Probably hasn’t ever been less fine in her whole life.

It’s entirely too much to deal with on top of all the ‘end of first year exam’ nonsense that gets doled out sort of all at once more like an avalanche of deadlines than anything resembling a bearable amount of work. She does her best to gather up all of those swirly feelings and cram them into a bottle where she can safely ignore them until later (or never) but they’re so _slippery_ and it’s hard.

Hard when Mélie smiles at her and her brain stops working. Hard when she says things like, “Hey, princess, I bought chocolate, let’s make brownies this weekend,” and when they do Amicia gets stuck staring at how she manages to get flour on her nose like a dork. Hard when her eyes glitter every time she so much as glances in Amicia’s direction and they are filled with the kind of stars to put the actual universe to shame.

So to reiterate: it’s _hard_ and she’s _not_ fine.

“Amicia!”

When she startles back to the present moment in their current plane of existence, she gets the distinct impression that’s not the first time Lucas has said her name. Arthur and Mélie are both staring at her. (Which is awkward because she’d just been staring at Mélie.)

“Daydreaming?” Mélie asks, her cheeky smile canted across her face.

“Hum? No,” she sighs, looking back at her plate, “just tired.”

Lucas gives her an uncomfortable pat to her shoulder. “Hang in there. Only three months until summer.”

“And your birthday,” Arthur reminds her. “What are we doing this year?”

“Sleeping, ideally.”

“Seems like a waste.”

She just huffs. “I have a class that day, a presentation in a tutorial. _That’s_ the waste.”

Arthur bobs his head. “Fair. Bet you wish you were lucky like we are,” he sing songs, slinging an arm around Lucas’ neck. “Holiday birthdays, guaranteed!”

Amicia rolls her eyes at him. “That’s until we all get jobs and have no set holidays. Enjoy it while you can.”

“You know my lecturers are already getting us to consider where our studies could take us,” Lucas says; topic change. “What we want to do with it.”

“Um… _why_?” Arthur sounds genuinely horrified by the idea.

“Because there are so many avenues I could go,” he explains. “And maybe you know exactly where you’re heading, but Amicia could go into corporate law, she could be a defendant, work with a company, get into family law, there are so many directions.”

“I could go the typical starving artist route,” Mélie chimes in. “Or I could pick up some design electives and get an office job doing graphic work; I could go classic and fight for a position at a museum doing restoration.” She shrugs, but the way she says that last bit tells Amicia everything she leaves unsaid.

Arthur pouts. “Geez. You guys putting together five year plans or something?”

“Oh!” Lucas brightens. “We should!”

“No,” Mélie says and Arthur adds, “We shouldn’t.”

“My five year plan goes: graduate, get a job,” Amicia tells him drolly.

“Can you graduate in five years?” Mélie asks, lips twitching upwards in a motion she can’t help but follow.

And because she’s watching (borderline mooning, to be honest) it takes her a minute to respond. “If I take a few extra classes here and there, yeah. Get an internship out of the way over a summer break.”

“And move across town where all the fancy rich people live, yeah?” Arthur adds, his smile a mirror to his sister’s.

“Nah.” Amicia answers him, but keeps staring at Mélie. “No, I’m happy living here with you.”

Mélie’s mouth inches up into a slightly wider and more genuine smile, nothing cheeky about it, just pleased. But Arthur leans past Lucas to jab her in the shoulder, gaining her attention. “No offense, Amicia, but I do _not_ want to live here forever.”

She shrugs. “We can move somewhere else.”

“And what if I wanna move in with someone who isn’t you and my sister, huh?”

“You can do that.”

“Yeah,” Mélie agrees, voice soft in the way that makes Amicia’s skin tingle. “We’ll uninvite you.”

But (weirdly) it’s Lucas who asks, with his brows furrowed just a little, the _real_ question: “Who else would you live with? Are you seeing someone?”

Arthur winks, but says, “No. I’d live with you, buddy.”

And Lucas’ face breaks into a wide grin. “Cool.”

Amicia goes back to watching Mélie just in time to see her filch the last of the salmon sushi and pop it into her mouth, and a crooked smile daring her to say something about it splits her face, teeth gleaming and cheeks all puffed up with food. She gasps, mock offended and ready to say something.

But then (oh god, _then_), Mélie has the audacity to say around her mouthful, “How badly did you want it?”

Something in the back of her mind goes _fizzt_ and her brain short circuits. But not all of it and not well enough to stop her eyes from dropping away from Mélie’s, falling to her mouth. And it’s… maybe it’s _endearing_ but it’s not especially… well. Somehow the moment manages to be the least likely moment in all of history to cause someone to want to kiss another person.

But that’s it: the moment Amicia really considers that it might be nice to kiss Mélie; that she _wants_ to.

Her throat goes dry, her heart skips enough beats to be worrying and when she sucks in a breath it’s not the sort of thing that would indicate she’s been doing so for the last almost nineteen years. Still, she manages to croak, “Do _not_ spit it out, you heathen.”

Mélie laughs (but she swallows it first). Amicia’s heart stutters away behind her ribs, doing a terribly poor job of keeping her alive. The boys are there still, talking about something she can’t hear because all of her attention is on Mélie in varying capacities.

Such capacities as: how pretty her eyes are when they crinkle with her smile, how warm and soft her hand is when she lays it apologetically over Amicia’s, and – vitally – how she wants to kiss her.

So, final reminder: she’s _not_ fine.

\--

Amicia does come to the, perhaps premature, conclusion that this is just one of those college-age experimentation things that they joked about with Arthur. This is reassuring to her in that; first, it suggests she’ll get over this at some point; second, there’s no point in acting on any of it because it’s just temporary and there’s no sense risking her friendship with Mélie for this; and third, that if she just admits to herself that this is fleeting and procedes to ignore it, she’ll get over it faster.

This… yeah, it doesn’t prove to be the case.

(The funny fish hook feeling in her chest, tugging her around, finally makes sense, though.)

Stumbling back into their apartment at quarter to six the evening of her birthday, Amicia is fully prepared to drop her crap, order a pizza, and fall asleep on the nearest horizontal surface, whether that be the floor or the sofa is meaningless to her. Instead of that, what she finds is all three of her stupid friends in the kitchen. Mélie shuffling something out of the oven, Lucas dishing food onto plates and Arthur closing the fridge with the sort of speed that can only indicate he’s up to something.

“What…?” she grumbles, leaning back against the door.

“Happy birthday,” they all shout together, loud enough to make her wince.

She repeats: “What…?”

“You had a long day,” Lucas says, moderating his tone somewhat. “And Mélie had no classes today, so after we finished we came over and cooked dinner.”

Arthur tilts a hip against the kitchen island. “Well… Mélie cooked. We assisted.”

“It was all her idea,” Lucas concludes. “So, happy birthday!”

Amicia rubs a finger behind one ear, pretty sure she’s imagining this. “You…”

“It’s nothing,” Mélie hastily assures her. Despite her dismissive wrist flick, it’s clear from her thin smile and slouched posture that she’s worried about something.

And when the fish hook in her ribs gives a sharp, stinging tug, Amicia doesn’t question it; she pushes away from the door and takes two long strides to Mélie where she can wrap her up in a hug. Her arms go around Mélie’s shoulders and pull her as close as she can, not quite close enough, but she tries.

“It’s not nothing,” she whispers into Mélie’s hair. “Thank you.”

Mélie’s hands settle on her lower back, warm and solid and Amicia leans into her more. It’s the first time all day she’s relaxed.

“Right,” Arthur huffs. “Don’t be falling asleep on us, Amicia. Not after all our hard work.”

“Hard work?” Lucas squawks. “All you did was walk down the street.”

There’s a slapping sound Amicia doesn’t spare the brain power to interpret. “Hard. Work,” Arthur insists.

When Mélie murmurs, “Happy birthday, princess,” into the skin just behind her jaw, she shivers from head to toe, arms contracting slightly, without her permission.

“Thank you,” she says again. And when she finally manages to pull away she can’t quite stop herself from pressing a quick kiss to Mélie’s cheek. “Thank you.”

The smile she gets for it it luminous, _celestial_. Her breath catches and her heart stops dead, completely unable to look away.

So much for getting over it.

\--

This semester, their timetables haven’t lined up quite so nicely as last time, which is both a good thing, and a bad. It’s awful because they rarely have any overlap where they get some quality hanging out time (which has its own pros and cons list, as far as Amicia is concerned); but bad because it makes games’ night much harder to organise.

The first few times they cram it into places it really doesn’t belong. And then Lucas has a brilliant idea: “We should just do this on Saturdays.”

It makes _much_ more sense. No finangling around classes, none of them are too exhausted to show up because they slept off the week that morning, and Lucas doesn’t have to try to organise transport back to his home at some ridiculous hour of the night (or feel bad about staying over).

But _sometimes_ it clashes with other things, that’s the real rub.

“There’s an Easter egg hunt this weekend,” Arthur tells them, flipping through a stack of flyers he pilfered from the library earlier. “Down through the campus village.”

“Oh,” Lucas puts in, peering over his shoulder. “We should go!”

“Ugh,” Mélie opines.

But Amicia (spurred by that little fish hook demanding she be as close to Mélie as she can manage at all times) sidles closer and mutters, “It’s free chocolate.”

“_Ugh_,” she repeats. “Fine. I’m in.”

Jabbing a finger past Arthur, Lucas indicates a point that crinkles under his pointer. “We might miss out on games’ night. It’s in the afternoon.”

“Or we can do the kids’ hunt in the morning,” Arthur counters. “Take all the chocolate from them. Candy from babes and all that.”

“That’s mean, Arthur.”

He grins, all pointed wolfish teeth and glittering nasty eyes, but he says, “Alright, we’ll do the afternoon one.”

“Is it a teams thing?” Mélie asks. “Or do we go around solo?”

“Teams of no more than five,” Amicia reads. “Lucky.”

But Arthur hesitates. “Do… Do we want a fifth pair of eyes?”

“Where would we find some?”

And _that’s_ how they end up with Rodric signed up on their team, standing with a whole motley of other people on a Saturday by the off-campus bar. He and Arthur are wearing matching bunny ears. It’s adorable.

“Right,” sings Arthur, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s _do_ this!”

“We’re still keen on splitting up, yes?” Amicia wants to know. “Everyone with a different section of the block?”

“Yeah, princess,” Mélie drawls. “We’ve got this.”

Pretty much everyone is rather laid back about the whole thing; the block designated for the hunt is mostly parkland, a children’s playground, and about three parking lots that back onto nearby businesses. It should be entertaining if nothing else to go combing through the carparks looking under people’s vehicles for Easter eggs.

They divide up so Lucas and Rodric have the carparks, Arthur’s the one contending with children to get the chocolates stashed there, and Amicia and Mélie will be questing through the park, which is probably the largest of the three areas, unfortunately. With any luck, Lucas and Rodric will clear the lots quickly enough to come and help.

“I see you talked everyone into it, after all.”

They look around with various levels of speed (Amicia, as always, gets a little distracted by Mélie), and there’s Zara. Behind her a little ways she can see Brad and a couple of other guys who are no doubt his rugby fellows.

“Yep,” Arthur replies, chipper. “You bet I did.”

When she catches her eyes, Zara shoots a wink at Amicia. “Good luck.”

“You’re the ones who’ll need it.”

Rodric drops a hand onto Arthur’s shoulder. “Ease up there,” he laughs. “It’s already a competition.”

She whirls in a cloud of now purple-dyed hair and cackles her way back to her friends. Arthur sticks his tongue out at her, but Amicia thinks there’s nothing quite so nice as having a group of people they can associate with and not have it devolve into name calling or something more unfortunate. Better than with Cecile.

“Let’s kick her ass,” Mélie grumbles, brows pinched together as she watched Zara rejoin her friends.

Amicia hooks her arm through Mélie’s. “Yeah. Let’s.” Her tone is marginally less dour, but it seems to do the trick. Mélie turns back to her, eyes bright again, smile clear. And that’s just not good for her concentration now, is it?

An announcer with a megaphone calls for quiet, does a countdown and then sends them off and she barely hears any of it. Only gets started at all because Mélie pulls her into action.

“C’mon, princess,” she laughs, drawing her towards the park. “Don’t want someone else to beat us to the chocolate.”

For all that it _is_ labelled as a competition, most people are pretty relaxed about it. The chocolate isn’t _that_ hard to find, after all. It hasn’t been hidden in the upper branches of trees and where there’s one, there are usually others; so that it’s a lot like uncovering secret nests belonging to some weird bird that lays foil-wrapped chocolate eggs instead of the more conventional fare.

There are eggs in bushes, flower beds, wrapped in necklaced strings around posts, sitting on benches and under them, in tiny woven baskets by the signs providing information about local flora. Having always been one to plan ahead, Lucas had insisted they all bring bags to make it easier to carry the eggs, and between them, Amicia and Mélie almost fill theirs in under an hour, that’s how many eggs are in the park.

“I feel like they could’ve made this harder,” Mélie muses, plopping herself down onto a bench overlooking the river. “Everyone’s going to have enough chocolate to last until Christmas.”

“I think that’s the point.” She sinks beside her, pulls the bag up onto her lap and offers an egg to Mélie. “They won’t notice if we eat a few now.”

Laughing, Mélie takes it, but she does say, “If we lose, Arthur _will_ skin us when he finds out.”

“_If_ he finds out. I won’t tell.”

“Me neither.”

It’s not better. All Mélie has to do is turn her glittering, galaxy-filled eyes on Amicia and she can’t breathe; and when she smiles like that? No. Higher brain function, who?

She just sits there and imagines how easy it would be to lean in and kiss her best friend. How she’d taste like chocolate and she’d smile into it and the whole thing would just be… _great_. Amicia could kiss her right now, right here in the park and then she’d know what it’s like; how soft her lips are, whether she’s wearing that lip balm she bought last week, if her heart would finally implode from having done it.

Amicia doesn’t kiss Mélie. But _god_ she thinks about it. For the rest of the afternoon, she thinks about little else.

When the eggs are tallied up and they _lose_ and Mélie says with the utmost delight that between them they probably ate nearly twenty eggs and Arthur goes _wild_, she’s still thinking about it.

When they go out for dinner, all five of them, and Arthur refuses to pay for anything because he’s not the one who lost them the competition, she thinks about it.

When they get home, she thinks about it.

It’s really all she thinks about. She wishes she could stop.

(But not as much as she wishes she could kiss her.)

\--

“I have,” Arthur begins, swishing his pen across his notebook dramatically. “Invited Rodric to games’ night.”

His words are met with a great big gaping void of sound. It is so profound, in fact, that it sort of speaks for itself.

“Should I not have?”

He gets three wildly different reactions:

Mélie: “Not Zara?”

Amicia: “Does he like board games?”

And Lucas: “You know five is not a good number for paired games, right?”

Holding in his laughter, Arthur says, “No! Of course not Zara. She’s not likely to be a long term fixture in any of our lives. Yes, he likes board games, and yes, I am aware it leaves us a bit out of whack, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”

There’s a heavy beat where they all consider that, Lucas does so with his eyebrows knitted together and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Mélie taps her pen against her knee, staring out the window of the café. But it’s Amicia who asks, “Do we know him well enough?” Even though she asks it softly, it hangs there between them like some kind of road block making it hard to progress through the conversation.

“Doubtful,” Mélie grumbles.

“I’m willing to take a risk,” Arthur counters. “Look, the worst that happens is he messes up one games’ night and we never invite him back. Fair?”

Lucas sticks the end of his pen into the corner of his mouth. “If we… never give anyone else a chance, we’ll never know if they could’ve been a good friend.”

“Sounds like agreement to me,” Arthur decides.

“Look,” Mélie says, laying a vicious finger at her brother. “If he hangs out on Saturday and the whole thing is shot, know that I _will_ hold it against you. Forever.”

He hums. “Noted. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

So Rodric attends games’ night.

And makes a rookie error right off the bat: “Do you guys play Monopoly?” he asks, crouched down to inspect their stack of games. “My dad hates it.”

“We… _have_ it,” Lucas replies, voice pained. “We don’t _play_ it.”

“Why?”

“Lucas always wins,” Mélie tells him, chin in her palm, shoulder tipped sideways into Amicia.

“Also it’s a game about being horrible to your friends,” Lucas adds. “It’s about cheating and lying and making everyone else suffer.”

“But yeah,” Amicia agrees, trying not to let Mélie’s proximity affect her ability to speak. “Lucas always wins.”

“And _I_ play the bank,” Arthur huffs. “So I should be the one winning.”

When he straightens, Rodric is holding the Cluedo box. “How about this?”

That peps Lucas up. “Oh! Yes!”

“As long as I get to be the reverend,” he laughs and Arthur claps him on the shoulder as they settle around the coffee table in their usual places.

“Oh, you’ll fit in just fine.”

Rodric arches an eyebrow. “I take it you all have pieces you prefer, then?”

“Damn right.”

“And the reverend isn’t among them?”

“Nope.”

“Must be fate.” And there’s something in his tone that makes Amicia tear her gaze from Mélie to see if she can figure it out.

It’s… There’s this soft expression on his face, lips quirked up in a smile meant only for Arthur, a little bit of the starlight sometimes held in Mélie’s eyes sparkles in his and that… well. It has her looking back at Mélie just to be certain she’s not imagining the similarities. Sure enough, there are the stars, twinkling back at her, bright and magical and setting some of that warm light to blooming in her chest until she’s pretty sure her lungs have been filled with the impossible vastness of the entire glittering expanse of the universe. And because her lungs are filled with _that_, breathing suddenly feels impossible.

She forgets what she was looking for.

Forgets everything except the way Mélie’s mouth curls and the almost overwhelming urge to find out what that feels like pressed to hers. What would it feel like? Could Mélie restore her ability to _breathe_ with her mouth? Probably. She could find out. She could let the fish hook in her ribs pull her the last inch over and just _see_. Just _feel_ for a moment.

Then the little red piece for Miss Scarlet collides with the side of her head. “Oi! Wake up.”

It’s with more than a modest amount of alarm that she whips around to Arthur. He’s watching her (watching them both) with this funny glint in his eyes. Panging low in her gut, the sharp fear that he somehow _knows_ what she was thinking (what she’s _still_ thinking, what she’s _always_ thinking) pierces through her. There’s a tilt to his mouth, a set to his shoulders, a certain just… feeling about how he’s leaning towards them that says he knows.

God she hopes he doesn’t know she’s been daydreaming about kissing his sister. There’s little she can imagine at the moment more mortifying.

“Yeah, alright,” Mélie gripes, snatching the white piece out of the air when he lobs it at her head. “Fuck off. Just roll the damn dice.”

“I’ll start when Amicia has returned to the realm of the living,” Arthur snorts. “Otherwise she’s liable to complain about me _cheating_ again.”

“You _do_ cheat, Arthur. It’s like, your defining trait.”

“Ha. You’re so funny. A cheater, me? Can you imagine?”

Rodric interjects before Mélie can insult him further. “Roll for your turn, Art. Or we’ll never finish.”

“Sure we will. Amicia always shows Mélie her cards.” He grumbles a bit more but rolls anyway.

Almost she thinks it maybe doesn’t matter if Arthur knows. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything. Maybe it’s not that bad.

But then she makes the mistake of glancing back at Mélie and there’s that goddamned sunlight shining through her teeth again and _ugh_. Now she’s back to imagining kissing her, great. She’s probably lucky she doesn’t take anything else to the head when it’s her turn to tell Rodric if she has something in her hand.

“No,” she mumbles, “None of that.”

The turn moves onto Lucas and Mélie sways sideways. “You have the pistol,” she whispers, right close to Amicia’s ear so she can feel the exhale.

She trembles. And when she finally remembers to look at her hand, yeah, she has the pistol. Oops.

It’s a _long_ night.

\--

With a little over a month left of their second semester at university, Amicia realises that it’s been… a _while_ since Arthur brought anyone around. (Admittedly, she has been very caught up in her own internal dilemmas lately, but she still feels a pang of guilt like a slug to the stomach.) He hasn’t had her pick him up two shakes past tipsy from parties either, just generally seems to be all around less social. Something she thought wasn’t supposed to happen until they were all thirty and filled with regret.

Naturally, what she does is corner him.

“Are you alright?”

He pauses in the act of swallowing an entire banana in one gulp to say, “Marr…mph?”

Amicia rolls her eyes.

Arthur tries again after polishing it off. “Alright?”

“You’ve been…” she shrugs. “You don’t go out as much.”

His lips pull apart in a wide, toothy grin. “Exams, Amicia. I’ve been studying.”

“You made time for parties before Christmas,” she points out.

“You know,” he drawls, sliding backwards up onto the counter. “You and Mélie once said that it worried you how relaxed I was about hooking up and going out. Now you’re worried I don’t do enough of it? What’s changed?”

“I’m not worried you don’t do _enough_,” she replies, tone a little tart. “It’s just… well when something changes I want to make sure you’re doing okay. That’s what friends do.”

He lifts a leg away from the counter to bump against her thigh. “I’m fine. Just… I dunno, after Zara said her piece about me not dating, I… I guess I don’t want to be stuck in a post-Cecile rut forever, you know?”

“Does that mean you’re going to date someone properly?”

Barking a laugh, he braces himself on the bench while he leans back. “I’ve seen Zara a few times, yeah. And a guy from my class.” Her mouth opens to say something indignant before she even knows what it’s going to be, but he waves her away, laughs a little harder. “_Relax_, Amicia. They know, we’ve been very transparent with each other. They’re both seeing other people too.”

Air whooshes from her lungs like a deflating balloon. “Alright then. As long as you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” He bounces from the bench to bump their shoulders together, drapes an arm around her in a really terrible attempt at a hug. “Thanks for checking in, though.”

“Of course.”

But then he adds, “And hey? How are you doing?” and she knows – _knows_ – he’s noticed her being weird, can see it in his eyes.

“Me?” she asks, feigning incredulity anyway. “I’m _fine_.”

“Sure, I’ll pretend I believe that.” Arthur twists until he’s giving her a proper hug and he’s so warm, so much broader of shoulder now than he used to be, it’s comforting. Like he’s some kind of integral structural support pillar in her life and knows he’ll always be there to hold her up when she needs it. Almost, that’s enough to break her down into tears. “But if you ever wanna talk about this… _thing_ that’s eating you? I’m here, Amicia. Always.”

She clings to him a little harder, breath coming raspy in her throat. “Thanks, Arthur.”

Just barely she manages to extricate herself and flee into the safety of her room before she starts crying.

This is, frankly, the _worst_.

\--

It’s entirely possible that Amicia is actually an awful daughter; she doesn’t go home as much as she might like, and probably not even close to half as much as her parents want. So she shouldn’t be surprised (but she is) when she rolls over in bed and answers the phone late one night and is greeted by, “Amicia! We miss you! Come home!”

She pulls the phone from her ear, squints at it and its obnoxiously bright screen. “Hugo,” she groans, “you don’t need to yell, I can hear you.”

“Amicia,” he whispers this time, and she can imagine him with his hands cupped around Beatrice’s phone, huddled under the covers of his bed. “Am I ever going to see you again?”

In response, she produces a bleary, creaky laugh. “Yes, of course.”

“When,” his whine draws that out agonisingly. “_When_? I miss you!”

“This weekend,” she says quickly, hoping to get back to sleep. “I’ll come home this weekend.”

And he _squeals_ into the phone, so she drops it on the pillow beside her. “Yay! Amicia! Come for dinner!”

“Alright, yes. Any other demands?”

He hums this time, a little softer, cracklier down the line, then he says, “Cake. Bring cake.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Can I sleep now?”

“Yes, grandma. Sleep time!”

“Shut up.” And to suit her words, she _hangs_ up.

But she does buy a cake before showing up on her parents’ doorstep on Friday evening, just a cheap one from the local store, but it has custard filling so Hugo will love it. He must see her car pull in through a window because he has the door ripped open before she even fiddles her keys out of her pocket.

“Amicia! You brought cake!”

“You did ask,” she laughs.

He pulls on her forearms so he can see and bounces inside squeaking. “You got the _good_ one!”

Still laughing, she kicks the door closed with her heel and heads into the kitchen. Beatrice is already dishing dinner up; some sort of curry and rice concoction that probably started out as a recipe but has since been turned into one of her spur-of-the-moment experiments. She’s lucky she’s good in the kitchen or the whole lot of them would’ve died of food poisoning years ago.

“Hey, mum,” she says, leaning up on her tip toes to kiss her cheek. “I brought cake.”

“Put it in the fridge for me, honey,” Beatrice tells her despite the fact that Amicia already has the door open before she starts talking. “How’s your week?”

She exhales. “Long. I’m ready to go into hibernation.”

“Ah yes,” Robert chimes in, striding into the room with his arms coated in dirt to the elbow, clearly having just finished gardening. “University students, the only species in the world known to hibernate through the summer months. A true marvel of the natural world.” He takes a moment to wash his arms and then wipes his soapy hands down the front of Beatrice’s apron (which is actually _his_ apron, she’s just wearing it).

“Very funny, dad,” she grouches with an eye roll. But she doesn’t resist when he bundles her into a bear hug, even tilts up to kiss his cheek, too.

“Of course,” he continues, throwing on his best David Attenborough accent (his best isn’t very good), “these creatures can be coaxed out of their instant noodle burrows by the promise of a home cooked meal from their parents. It’s an intricate ritual but one that is especially important for the proper socialisation of their young.”

“Shut up, dad,” is what she says, but her tone and expression very obviously state the opposite sentiment and he knows it.

Robert squeezes her a fraction tighter. “It’s good to see you, kiddo.” And when he pulls away, there’s this mischievous twinkle in his eyes that instantly puts her teeth on edge. “Glad we could pry you from whichever hot college boy you’re currently dating. Or… heart… breaking? Is that a thing?”

“You’re the writer, Robert,” Beatrice laughs. “Here, Amicia, help me get this set on the table. Hugo, would you fetch glasses?”

“Oh! Yes!”

Robert lays place settings in their usual spaces and pours juice into Hugo’s glass once he’s seated – and squirming – in his spot before pouring for the rest of them. “And how are the hot college boys,” Robert continues as if it’s not a weird topic at all. “Hope they’re not distracting you too much from your studies.”

Hugo bounces higher in his seat once and asks, “Who’s hot boys?”

“I was a hot boy in my day, kiddo,” Robert says with a wink and Beatrice responds with an eyeroll. “They’re the ones all the girls wanna kiss.”

“Ew!” Hugo screeches, slapping hands over his ears. “No kissing!”

“I agree,” Amicia says, patting her brother on the shoulder. “There’s been no kissing.” But of course, that’s a lie, and no sooner has she said it than she’s thinking about the Christmas party and Zara and – most importantly – _Mélie_.

Her father drops his jaw comically. “None at _all_? Why on earth _not_? Isn’t that why you moved out?”

“You know it’s not,” she drawls, but the effect is probably ruined a little by the red staining her cheeks.

And Robert, damn him, takes her blushing to mean something else; he bangs his hand theatrically against the edge of the table. “Aha! There is a boy!”

“There’s _not_,” she insists. (This time she isn’t lying because no, not a boy, just a Mélie; which, _ugh_, because there isn’t even really _that_.)

“Leave her alone,” Beatrice hushes.

Hugo claps his hands. “No more boys! No more kissing!”

Robert leans on one elbow across the table towards Hugo. “You may change your tune on that one day, kiddo,” he says. “You might decide kissing boys is the _best_.”

“I won’t,” he huffs, folding his arms. “It’s gross.”

“Well.” Robert settles back in his chair, picks up his cutlery, perhaps ready to leave the topic to die. (She should know her father better.) “Even so, we’d still like to meet any new friends you make.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “What about my old friends?”

“How are they?” Beatrice asks.

“Good. Mostly it goes: wake up, go to class, come home, eat dinner, study for exams, pass out, repeat; but yeah, they’re good.”

“And new friends? You’re talking to people in classes, I hope,” Beatrice adds.

“Some of them, yeah.” Her stomach lurches at the expectant looks on her parents’ faces; they want details, want proof she and her friends aren’t developing an early case of on-set hermithood. “Well I have most of my classes with Zara or Brad, which is good; nice to have people to rely on for group projects. I know Mélie has some… she calls them associates; I’ve only met one. Lucas avoids people because that’s his thing, but he talks to a girl called… um… Selene, I think? And Arthur knows everyone.”

“At least you’re all trying,” Beatrice decides.

“What about outside of classes,” Robert asks. “You’re doing activities, right? College is great for clubs and stuff like that.”

“We did the Easter egg hunt. We didn’t _win_. Arthur blames me and Mélie because we ate a bunch. Oh!” her mouth, the traitorous thing, blurts, “And there’s Rodric, he’s nice too,” before she can think about that too hard.

“Who’s Rodric?” (And she misses completely the tone in her father’s voice, oops.)

“Uh… Well, Arthur and I go to the rec centre to play tennis, and Brad’s friends with a bunch of guys who play rugby and Rodric is their referee.”

Robert’s face splits into a wide, shit-eating grin, and that’s when she realises she’s made a huge error. “Rugby boys, huh? Bet they’re big.”

“_Robert_!”

He starts cackling, but the sound is drowned out entirely by the awful way her face turns crimson and her heart bangs around in her ears. “Dad,” she grumbles, “_Gross_.”

Hugo leans towards her. “Was that about kissing?”

“Yeah, Hugo. It was about _kissing_.”

“Dad! Yuck!”

“I’m never introducing you to anyone I date ever again.”

Beatrice extends a hand to flap it pointlessly against Robert’s shoulder. “Now look. She’ll never tell us anything again.”

“Oh _no_,” Robert gasps, recovering from his chortles. “Now who will I give The Talk™ to?”

“_We’re_ going to have a Talk™ later,” Beatrice tells him flatly.

But Amicia misses whatever comes after that; she’s too busy thinking about what would happen if she brought Mélie home in that… capacity. Would Robert give _her_ The Talk™? Imagining her father giving Mélie a stern warning not to break her heart almost has Amicia bursting into laughter (but it would be inexplicable, so she forces it down… just). As if Mélie would ever hurt her.

And isn’t that a rabbit hole to go down: as if thinking about kissing Mélie wasn’t bad enough, now she’s got this damn scene playing out in her head where she tells her family they’re _dating_. The idea of Mélie being her girlfriend makes her shift in her seat and stare at her food, hoping desperately her parents can’t see on her face what she’s thinking.

(Zara had asked if Mélie was her girlfriend and she’d thought it ridiculous. But now?

Now she shivers.)

\--

On the last Friday of the semester, the four of them (plus Rodric) go to this event the seniors fondly refer to as the Book Burning. It sounds sentirely dramatic so imagine Amicia’s surprise when there’a literal bonfire and the graduating class are throwing paper and outdated textbooks onto it. Apparently, it’s _not_ a symbolic thing.

Arthur has a few too many drinks and makes out with one of Rodric’s rugby friends (a guy who up until that exact moment had never made a single indication of wanting to kiss boys before in his life). It reminds her of Zara. And as if by some twisted gift of fate, she’s there too, they only see her long enough for her to wink at Amicia and then she’s going red and pretending she’s anywhere else.

Mélie sits with her all evening and Amicia _stares_ at her for most of the evening. By the flickering firelight she looks almost exactly the way Amicia might imagine an ancient goddess would look: untouchable and beautiful; ethereal and a little haunting.

She wants to kiss her. So badly it hurts. Not doing so takes every ounce of self-control she has.

On the first Sunday of their summer break, there’s one of those optional lectures going on at the university. It’s done over the summer so only the most dedicated show up and this year the guest speaker is some big shot defense lawyer whose firm is offering a limited number of internships the following year. Her friends are not impressed.

“I’m _so_ not going to a boring lecture,” Arthur gripes. “I’m on _holiday_.” He doesn’t even look up from the video game he’s playing with Rodric.

Lucas shakes his head. “Sorry, Amicia. I’m going to the doctor with grandpa that day. He’s _fine_, just a check up, but I want to support him, you know?”

But Mélie says, “I’ll go. As long as you don’t get mad at me for doing cariacatures of folks in the audience.”

“Actually,” Amicia finally manages to input, “I was going to add ‘so I’ll probably not be home for dinner’ but thanks, I’m glad to know you guys care.”

“So you don’t want me to come?” Mélie asks.

She clears her throat and hopes to _god_ her face isn’t flushed. “I mean, you can come with if you want. I just wasn’t going to force anyone. It probably _will_ be boring.”

Mélie shrugs. “Sure. I’ll go with. We can get dinner after, leave the boys to their own devices.”

“If we don’t get food for them,” Amicia wonders softly, “do you think they’ll remember to eat?”

“Ha ha,” Arthur drawls. “You’re _so_ funny. I cooked last night.”

“You _burned_ last night,” Mélie retorts.

He flips her off.

She gasps dramatically and watching her storm over to slap him on the back of the head enough times that he gets distracted and loses the race to Rodric? Amicia wants to kiss her. She’s flooded with _such_ fondness and… and… something else. Once again, her face goes bright damn red when she figures it out.

Amicia wants to kiss her when they go to the lecture and Mélie spends the whole time sketching the guest speakers in various ridiculous ways. She wants to kiss her when they go to the pizzeria for dinner. Wants to kiss her when Mélie buys them both ice cream, hooks their elbows together and walks her towards the park, lit by strings of little lights.

(She wants to kiss her; wants this to be a date. She_wants_. God.)

Here, Amicia had almost convinced herself this would _pass_ and she’d realise she’s not actually attracted to Mélie in any way and it was all just a weird thing that happened. But then it’s Lucas’ birthday and she finally has to accept that maybe it _isn’t_ going away. (That maybe, even, it’s _worse_ than she thought.)

_It_ being that she definitely, impossibly has some form of very serious _feelings_ for her best friend in a decidedly not-platonic-but-actually-romantic way. Which is not to say that the platonic feelings go away at all, rather it’s like those feelings are the ones holding up all these other giant swirls of warmth and light and whatever. Like she can’t look at Mélie and think _only_ friend things anymore, because they inevitably transition into something else. Not _more_ just… like, some of the building blocks in the lego construct of their friendship are these shimmering bright things, a different colour of block, doing the same basic purpose, but now they’re so tangled up she couldn’t remove _one_ glittering block without the whole thing coming down.

And honestly, that’s what she’s most afraid of: that she’ll say something or do something and one of those blocks will turn into a weak point, it’ll be a Jenga piece instead of lego and when Mélie slides it from the wall their entire friendship will crumble. It _terrifies_ her.

Anyway. Lucas’ birthday.

He is impossibly excited about it when he bangs through their door the morning of. “I know you guys said you’d be okay with doing nothing,” he babbles. “But grandpa got some of that junk mail the other day and it was an ad and I thought ‘hey, my friends would love this’ so that’s what we’re going to do. Get dressed, but not fancy.”

Arthur, who is in the process of setting up their Playstation because they’d all expected Lucas to be down for that, turns to stare at him like he’s sprouted two new heads. “Should we worry?”

“No, no,” he says, batting the words away with a hand. “Not at all. It’s within my tolerance for excitement.”

“But it’s better than going to the science museum?” Mélie asks drolly from where she’s leaning on the back of the sofa.

Amicia, to be quite honest, is only paying this conversation about half the attention it likely deserves because Mélie’s still in her pyjamas and the pants sit low around her hips and the shirt is bunched up slightly so a strip of skin around her midriff shows. Her just-out-of-bed brain is having a harder time kicking into gear than usual with that to distract her.

Still, she hears when Arthur asks in a near demand, “Where are we going?”

“I don’t want to spoil it.”

“Amicia needs to know how to get us there.”

Lucas deflates a little. “Oh. Right.” But he perks up again not a second later. “I’ll tell her but _only_ her.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Why so suddenly dramatic?”

The answering smile he gets isn’t especially reassuring to any of them.

Really, though, despite it being _Lucas_’ birthday, he surprises them all completely by directing Amicia past the rec centre she and Arthur used to go to, and down a few blocks to where there’s a big blocky building sporting neon lettering proclaiming its purpose.

“Laser tag?” Mélie asks, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Well, the brochure grandpa got was for the paint ball facility that opened up recently,” Lucas explains. “But that seems a bit hard and being hit by paint pellets surely hurts a lot. Laser tag doesn’t have the same problems so I thought…” he shrugs, “why not?”

He looks worried that he’s made a poor choice, however, and it’s not until Arthur claps his shoulder and says, “Buddy, we would’ve been happy to hang out and play video games, you know. This is pretty cool, but you don’t have to try to be more exciting for us,” that he relaxes.

“I know,” Lucas says. “But I love you guys, and just because it’s my birthday doesn’t mean we can’t do something fun together.”

Arthur beams at him and Amicia asks softly, “Hey, can we hug you?”

There’s a pause before he bobs his head and they all pile together to squeeze him quickly, letting go before he starts squirming.

Getting to actually play is something too. Because there’s only four of them, they elect to play a free-for-all game instead of teams, mostly since two-v-two doesn’t sound very exciting. But then they realise there are multiple rooms they can play in, and one of them is tiny with the intention of being specifically for smaller groups. They don’t learn that fast enough to book it, unfortunately, so it’s the free-for-all in a medium venue to start.

And there are _so_ many things to bother her. Not the least of which is that the vest with its glowing lights and dorky velcro straps and fraying try-hard-kevlar sits on Mélie’s shoulders just… just _so_ and it’s _distracting_. There is no way anyone should look hot in these stupid get ups and yet, there she is, managing just that. Ridiculous.

The room they’re in is large and filled with obstacles; they each start in a different corner and the lights are so low deliberately so they can see the way each other glows. But it’s irritating because she trips over about four things right off the bat and makes a god-awful clatter doing it.

Lucas? Not great at the game. He tries to sneak up on Amicia but fails, and when she spins, she tags him reflexively. His vest flicks from blue to red, an indication of his being out.

“Sorry, Lucas.”

He shrugs, his teeth shining in the black light. “It’s okay,” he says brightly, shuffling backwards. “There’s always next time.”

It’s a bit of a mess, really. They should probably be kinder to themselves about it, still getting used to the game as they are, but Amicia can’t help but think they probably look like idiots. Especially when she decides to clamber up one of the funny blocky walls in the middle of the room to see if she can spot the others.

She never does make it to the top.

Behind her, there’s a soft thudding and she whirls, dropping into a crouch, more because the noise was startling than for any tactical reason. But it’s _dark_ in the room and the shapes are all _weird_ and she can’t pick out who it was – if anyone, for all she knows it was just a precariously balanced padded log falling off a bench.

So she stands back up properly, it gives her a moderately better view over some of the low-lying obstacles and she steps away from the wall at her shoulders to peer over the log she assumes is the one that made the noise. Had it even been there before? Which of course means she’s focused on it and misses the movement in her peripheral vision.

Movement that turns out to be Mélie dropping down off the block she was about to climb and stopping right in front of her, one finger pressed to her lips. Her tag rifle is held loosely at her side, so Amicia doesn’t question when she gets walked backwards until she bumps into the wall. Mélie looks over her shoulder for a moment, but Amicia’s view is obscured by how close she is.

How _close_ she is.

Obviously, even had she been interested in trying to spot Arthur (which is what she assumes Mélie is pressing her into the wall for), she would still be much too distracted by the suddenly deafening sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Distracted too by the way she can feel a flush creeping up her neck, the intense sparkle in Mélie’s eyes, lit only by the soft blue light on her vest, the curl of hair around her ear, the curve of her nose and jaw and mouth – her mouth is so close Amicia would barely have to move an inch and she could kiss her. Against her ribs, her heart kicks painfully at the thought.

But then Mélie is turning back and Amicia is having trouble breathing fixed as she is by that cheeky, crooked smile.

She realises – too late – that she’s been played.

On her vest, the lights flash from blue to red.

“Got you,” Mélie whispers, so close Amicia can feel the exhale of her words against her lips.

Then she’s backing away to track down her brother and Amicia just stands there. Just stands, leans against the wall, because she’s not sure if she pushed away that her knees would support her weight.

Mélie wins that round, the lights on her vest turn gold to prove it.

Slinging an arm over her shoulders, Arthur declares, “I reckon you and I should team up. Get some revenge.”

“Suits me,” says Mélie with a casual shrug. “Lucas will be on the winning team for his birthday, then. Big of you.”

“Let’s crush her,” Amicia mumbles, turning to Arthur. “Take her down a peg.”

Mélie starts their two-v-two game laughing. And she _finishes_ it laughing too. Mostly because Amicia is a great big handicap and is too easily fooled or blinded or conned or _anything_ when Mélie is involved.

Lucas gets Arthur and squeals about it happily, loud enough that Amicia gets him easily as payback. But Mélie… god damn her. She sneaks up on Amicia and _taps her on the shoulder_ so she can shoot her in the chest. It’s… audacious and annoying and… and…

And it’s hot. Amicia stares at her cocky grin with a slack jaw and a pointed heat throbbing through her chest. In her head, she can picture grabbing Mélie by the front of her dumb vest and kissing her; the scene plays out with such clarity that she’s nearly convinced herself it really happens.

But it doesn’t.

This time, though, it’s not because she _restrains_ herself, but because she’s too struck silly by just how much she wants it (needs it, as if it’ll extinguish the fires crackling in her veins, as if it’ll force oxygen into her lungs) that she forgets how to move. She only makes it out of the room because Mélie loops their arms together and drags her out.

Lucas’ birthday is great. But everything else _sucks_.

\--

“Arthur.”

Pause.

“_Arthur_.”

“_Amicia_.” His tone is decidedly fonder and filled with a little more teasing nonsense than hers. Less stressed.

“You remember a while back you asked how I was, and I said I was fine…”

He’s lying on his belly along his bed, laptop in front, finger over the spacebar where he’d paused whatever he’s watching when she walked in. “Yeah. You lied to my face and I said I didn’t believe you. Yep.” With a sharp movement, he tugs one elbow closer to his chest, props himself up more securely.

“Yes,” she agrees. “I lied.”

To his credit, Arthur just watches her pace past the end of his bed without speaking.

“I lied,” she repeats.

Arthur’s fingers press the lid of his laptop closed and he shuffles forward into a cross-legged position where he can reach out and grab her wrist. “Amicia,” he murmurs.

All the air rushes from her lungs in a great whoosh and her knees give out, depositing her right in front of him. “How did you know you’re into guys, too?”

He blinks, and for a second she expects him to have something cheeky to say, but (and she’s never loved him more than right then) instead he says, “Guys are hot. But I didn’t know I’d _enjoy_ it until I tried it. Why?”

Amicia picks out a point in his room: the lamp on his desk. It has a funny art deco shade, sort of triangular and blocky but covered in these elegant arches. She doesn’t know where it came from but staring at it is easier than looking at him. Arthur knows her _so_ well. He could probably read essays from the expression (or lack thereof) on her face. The lamp, however, doesn’t know her at all and has no eyes with which to read essays besides.

His fingers brush against her elbow. “Amicia?”

The words, “Zara kissed me,” tumble unbidden from her mouth.

She’s pretty sure he sucks in a surprised breath, but she’s just noticed there’s a bit of fraying on one corner of the lampshade so it’s easy to ignore.

“At Christmas,” she adds.

A pregnant pause follows her words before he asks, “And?”

“I…”

He hands her some words to help, “Did you like it?”

“I… Yeah.” Her brain conjures up the moment, astral projects her back to having Zara on her lap, and then she’s blurting, “I _liked_ it. Not _Zara_ specifically, but… I…” She swallows. “I…”

Arthur’s fingers sweep along the inside of her wrist until he can thread them through hers and squeeze. A simple gesture, but the support restores her ability to inhale properly. “Since then,” he starts slowly, “have you… wanted to kiss other girls?”

_One_. The word drums staccato through her head. _Just one_. Aloud she says, “Um… yeah? One?” Her fingers tighten on his until she’s sure it must be hurting him. “Is that… is it _enough_?”

“Enough what?” There’s no laughter in his voice, only genuine concern.

“_Enough_. I’m…” Amicia has to take a moment; her heart has escaped the prison of her ribs and is knocking around her windpipe, making it hard to speak until she wrestles it away. “What if… what if I’m not really into girls and I do something and then change my mind?” Raw from being beaten up by her heart, the words come out in a pained whisper, so low and soft she worries he may not have heard her. “What if I ruin _everything_?”

“Oh, Amicia.” Arthur pulls her closer until she’s practically in his lap, hugs her fiercely. “Why don’t you try, like, easing yourself in? I know it sounds… I dunno, stupid maybe? But just… kiss a couple of girls and see how you feel?” He shrugs. “It’s what I did.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t… _ugh_. I don’t want to just ‘kiss girls’,” she sighs. “I want…” Her throat closes over before she can spit out ‘Mélie’ and be filled with regret until the end of time. Lucky, that.

Arthur seems to know what she means, all the same. “Just one girl in particular, huh?” _Now_ he smiles a cheeky, shit-eating smile. “Think about her a lot, do you?”

Despite fully intending to be mad at him, her mouth betrays her, “_All_ the damn time. _Constantly_.”

Surprisingly, his smile turns soft and he squeezes her hand. “Then you’re not having some weird internal breakage, Amicia,” he says gently. “You’re just into girls. This specific girl, most of all. But people don’t typically catch feelings for _a _girl without being into girls as a general concept.”

She lifts her free hand and scrubs at her face. Her eyes are damp. “How do you know, though?”

“That you’re not the exception to the rule?” he asks, eyebrows arched as if he cannot _believe_ she thinks she’s somehow special and breaking what everyone understands to be a fundamental truth of the universe. “Look. Rodric had a thing for _one_ guy. One very specific dude who he knows. But he _also_ knows he’s into guys as a whole. He knows the same thing I do, the same thing Mélie knows: that being into one guy means you’re definitely, at some stage, going to be into others. Facts only.”

“So,” she says carefully. “I’ll be into other girls then? And this will pass?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “And maybe not. I’m nineteen, Amicia. I’m not an expert.” He leans a mite closer. “But I’m also not _blind_. Whoever it is you’ve got the hots for, you’re like, _so_ distracted by her. _All the fucking time_. Do something about it. Please.”

“What if… what if it doesn’t work? I don’t want to lose our friendship.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t have the answers. But like, think about how long you’ve known her, yeah?” She does so – it’s six or seven years by now, not that Arthur knows that. “She’s been there for you the _whole_ time, right?” Yes, she sure has. “No matter what, all the bad shit that happened? And you can talk to her about anything?” Except this? Yes, that checks out. “Even though you’ve been weird with her lately, she’s _still_ putting up with you?”

“What’s your point, Arthur?”

He rolls his eyes. “Think about that feeling in your chest when you think of her, yeah?”

And it’s _stupid_, but she doesn’t have to think hard. It just… blooms, like it’s been waiting for precisely this moment, to fill her with liquid light and warmth and make her heart skip and her breath hitch. It’s _so_ stupid.

“Is that a new feeling?”

Amicia opens her mouth to say, ‘Duh, that’s why we’re having this conversation. Because it’s new and scary and I don’t know what I’m doing.’ But instead she _really_ thinks about it. Because he’s taken this seriously, the least she can do is return the sentiment.

She thinks of the way Mélie is with Hugo, how she always gets involved in his games, even when they’re silly. Thinks of how seeing her playing with him that first time had filled her with such… such _fondness_, how she’d smiled.

Thinks of her late-night texts, support when things with Lucien had started heading downhill. All her promises to beat him up even though she likely never could. All the ways she went out of _her_ way to be there if Amicia needed it.

She thinks of getting ice cream, hanging out at the park, of sharing the bed at Christmas. She thinks of Mélie telling her secret in a voice so tiny it should’ve broken, so scared to be judged and hated that she’d tried to keep it all to herself. She thinks of the soft wonder in Mélie’s eyes and the answering awe that had echoed through her ribs when the suggestion of moving in together had been raised.

Thinks of the awful late-night phone call that took them to the hospital and the timbre of Mélie’s voice when she’d said _thank you_. Thinks of telling her that the scar is meaningless, how pretty she is, and her father can’t change that. Thinks of how _brave_ Mélie was to stand up to him in any way and hang the consequences.

She thinks of Mélie’s sharp wit and swift interjections and her fondness for pointed jabs. How she’s so capable of getting – equally – a rise out of someone with a few well constructed comments or to the heart of a matter that others dance around.

She thinks, now, that if the trickling heat in her belly grows any stronger, she may just explode because of it.

She _doesn’t_ think before she whispers, “God. Am I in love with your sister?”

It hits her pretty quickly though; fear of having said that _aloud_, right _here_, with _Arthur_ sets her teeth to aching. Arthur squeezes her hand and brings her back to the present. He doesn’t laugh at her, however, doesn’t get mad, just says, “Duh,” and rolls his eyes.

“I…” she tries. “You…”

Arthur just hugs her again. “I love you, Amicia,” he murmurs. “Take some time. Think about it. Then fucking _do_ something.”

Her mouth works, but she can’t find words to say. Instead, she tucks her face against his shoulder and tries not to cry.

\--

She takes his advice and thinks about it.

As always, she thinks about little else.

It’s what she’s thinking about when Mélie shuffles into the kitchen one morning, still in her pyjamas, phone in hand, running a hand through her hair and says, “Do you remember when we were fourteen?”

Amicia stops in the process of buttering toast – four slices, she always does extra, knows Mélie well enough to know her routine and that she’ll get up and complain about being hungry but then not make anything for herself. Best to beat her to the punch.

“Um… yeah?”

“Well, technically it was my fourteenth, but yeah.”

“Okay. Still remember that, yes. Why?”

As Mélie leans on the other side of the kitchen island, Amicia pushes her one of the plates. “You gave me an IOU for a present.” There’s a beat of quiet as Mélie takes a loud crunching bite out of one corner. “If you’re down, I’d like to cash it in.”

Amicia blinks at her and her stupid smile, stupid messy bun, stupid casual air. It’s nearly ten in the morning and her sleep shirt is loose from wear, slipping off one shoulder and because of how she’s resting her weight on the counter, Mélie’s collarbones are visible above the neckline and Amicia’s eyes get stuck there for a moment. Along with the usual flare of warmth (that she now has a wonderful, awful name for, dear god) there’s something a lot like indignation.

“Mélie, that was six years ago.” It’s all she can think to say.

“Do IOUs have expiry dates?”

“No. I just thought you’d forgotten.”

Her smile quirks up higher. “I was waiting for something worth using it on.”

“I’m not buying you a car,” she says drolly, “I don’t have the money.”

Mélie just laughs. “No. I got stood up today, but I already bought the tickets. You wanna go to the movies with me?”

With an eye roll, Amicia joins her laughter. “You don’t need to spend your IOU on that.”

“I dunno,” she replies with a shrug. “You might change your mind when you hear what movie it is.”

“Oh, god, what?”

Because she’s infuriating, Mélie just _winks_. She winks and Amicia knows that even if the movie is somehow everything she hates most in life, she’d still go and see it with her. No question.

“If you’re going to be insufferable about it,” Amicia says slowly, turning away so Mélie can’t see her expression, “we’ll come back to that and you can tell me about being _stood up_.”

When she risks a glance up, pink has tinted across Mélie’s nose. “Oh,” she croaks.

Amicia quirks an eyebrow. “Does this mean you’ve gotten over your straight girl?”

Unsurprisingly, the pink expands from her nose to her cheeks. “Well… no. Hence being stood up.”

Dropping her plate gently in the sink, Amicia slides up onto the counter, toast in hand, and says, “Deets please.”

Mélie sighs. “We’ve been out a few times. Her name’s Anna. Not the Anna from school, this one’s nice.”

“I figured.”

“Yeah, well… Everyone’s been telling me to get proactive about getting over… the straight girl… So I, um… I _took the advice_,” she says it like a euphemism and Amicia has to fight her own blush despite knowing exactly what she means. “But I guess she could tell my heart wasn’t in it.”

Rolling her eyes, Amicia manages a surprisingly casual, “You can just say you kissed her, Mélie,” in spite of the uniquely upset sensation that washes sour and queasy to her stomach. The idea of Mélie kissing another girl (a girl who isn’t _her_) hangs like a lead weight in her gut, burns like the moment before vomit.

Giving up on soft pink, Mélie goes bright red. “Sure,” her voie is scratchy and tight, “I kissed her.” The red darkens (her face more or less outdoes her hair colour by this point). “But yeah, apparently she’s met Maddie now and they… _talked_.”

“Oh.” She realises what Mélie actually means a beat later and so she repeats, “_Oh_.”

“Yeah.” She shuffles her phone across the counter with one absent finger. “She sent me a text late last night; I was asleep, I think she was counting on it.” Lighting up the screen, she reads the message, “I like you. I do. But you’re distracted. Call me when you get over… _her_.”

The way she says that last word makes Amicia wonder if it’s really the one used in the text or if Anna knows this mystery girl’s name and used it instead. She isn’t sure if she wants to know or not. (For a second she entertains the notion that if she had this girl’s name, she could _find_ her and _beat_ her for causing Mélie the pain of not feeling the same way. It’s a ridiculous thought, and a stupid thing to expect of this girl – probably doesn’t _really_ want her to return Mélie’s feelings, either – but _still_.)

Mélie slouches a little further onto the counter, loose hair falling into her face, and her shirt shifts around her shoulders just so. From her now elevated position, Amicia is afforded exactly the right angle to make her acutely, _painfully_, aware of her new fascination with Mélie’s collarbones. Consequently, it takes her a moment to realise Mélie is speaking.

“… figured you’d have an opinion.”

She blinks back to the present. “About being stood up or…?”

“Yeah, the stood up thing.”

Amicia slips from the counter and steps around the island so she can lean into Mélie’s shoulder. (It’s a big help because now she can’t be distracted by strips of skin she’s realising it might be amazing to explore with her mouth.) “I think she’s a great idiot and it’s her loss.”

And Mélie twists, her hip propped against the counter instead of her arms so she can fix Amicia with the full force of her twinkling smile. “Yeah?”

Okay, so she’s still distracted, only this time it’s by those stars in her eyes. “Of _course_,” she eventually remembers to answer. “You’re the best.”

The wattage of Mélie’s smile could probably power an entire small nation. “Thanks, princess.” She stuffs the last four or five bites of toast into her mouth all at once and mumbles around it, “So about the IOU?”

Amicia laughs. “Sure, yeah. _I’m_ not gonna stand you up. Let’s go see this movie.”

As it happens, she kind of regrets agreeing, but likely _not_ for the reasons Mélie would imagine. The good thing is that movies occur in the _dark_, which means absolutely no one can see the way she reacts to watching this coming-of-age film. Mostly because it’s not the kind she’s used to; this one is all how this boy comes to realise he’s gay and it’s _fine_ there’s nothing wrong with him because of that and how he handles it, handles having crushes on friends and telling folks about himself and _trust_ and importantly: what happens if he’s wrong about himself?

The questions echo painfully through Amicia’s ribcage, she can feel in her _bones_ the exact pain and anxiety this kid experiences. But movies happen in the dark, so no one – not even Mélie – can spot how she squirms, twitches, _cries_ at seeing her own struggle reflected on screen. Thank _god_.

And the best part? The boy in the movie gets a happily ever after; so for a beat as the credits start to roll and the lights slowly turn back up and Amicia is scrubbing the last of the tears from her eyes and turning to Mélie, she can imagine that maybe – just _maybe_ – there’s a happily ever after for her, too, somewhere.

(Her heart thuds desperately in her chest to the tune of the words, ‘maybe right here, maybe right here’. It’s a hope she has to squish before it bursts from her ribs, too small and fragile to handle the world just yet.)

“That was good,” Amicia whispers as they exit. “I’m not counting this as you having used your IOU, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mélie stuffs her hands in the pockets of her shorts. “Arthur wants to see it, but he was all ‘what if it sucks, I don’t wanna waste my money on something that sucks’ so he made me promise I’d give him a review.”

“So what’s your verdict?”

With a smile that turns sad at the edges, Mélie says, “They nailed it.”

Privately, Amicia agrees.

\--

She thinks about it – about what Arthur said, about how she feels and what she wants. She _thinks_ about it.

She thinks about it for weeks, so intently that by the time their second year of classes starts up she can probably quite safely say she’s _overthinking_ about it. Their classes go back, they get busy with instant assessment, they don’t see each other as much because of timetable clashes, Zara’s hair is a highlighter green when Amicia sits beside her (Brad on her other side) for their first lecture.

She thinks about it during most of that lecture and misses pretty much everything that isn’t the assessment information.

But that’s all she does: think about it.

Nothing _changes_. Every time Mélie smiles at her, there’s a switch flipped in her brain that stops everything from working properly. Every time she sees Mélie there’s this overwhelming surge of warm, tingly feelings that block out everything else for just a few painful heartbeats. Every time she makes it to the end of the day and she realises in just a short half hour she’ll be home and Mélie will be there a flush of anticipation courses through her.

Arthur has a late class on Thursdays, doesn’t get back until half-past seven at the earliest and spending an evening just her and Mélie is so nice. But sitting there with ice cream or brownies or bowls of hot popcorn is the best part. The worst part is how close they end up under the blanket and how, in the low light of only the television screen, Mélie’s face is painted a wonderful, shifting mosaic and the urge to lean across and kiss her is one she almost can’t quash. Her mouth would be salty from the popcorn, but her hands would be warm and she’d complain about missing the movie even though kissing would be better.

Their games’ nights remain on Saturdays because it’s the only day they’re all guaranteed to be present. Rodric still attends; he joins in with them more and more, hangs out with his rugby friends less and less. She doesn’t question why, can’t spare the braincells when there’s only one still left functioning in her head and it’s the one that’s obsessed with Mélie. The one that stares when she wins at Catan and she leaps from her seat with exuberance, the one that forgets to care when she tips her hand just _so_ and Mélie can see her cards in Cluedo. (The one that makes it hard to perform proper charades when Mélie is staring at her so intently trying to guess the movie she’s attempting to act out.) It’s the lonely little braincell that, when Mélie flops back down beside her after they kick _ass_ at Pictionary (a game Arthur thinks it’s unfair they play at all) and gives her a high five, thinks instead of that, a victory kiss would be better.

She thinks about kissing Mélie because she bought Thai when Amicia was late home after her class ran long. She thinks about kissing Mélie because she left the last of the pizza when Amicia wasn’t feeling well. She thinks about kissing Mélie because it’s Tuesday. She just… she thinks about it _a lot_.

And then doesn’t do it.

\--

October creeps up on them – on Amicia especially. It sort of just… arrives. And with it comes a rather dreary onset of drizzle. It doesn’t storm, doesn’t pour, doesn’t even grow into fat, heavy droplets; it just drizzles this fine mist _constantly_. The whole thing is very depressing.

As such, Amicia thinks it’s fair that instead of going out with Brad and Zara and whoever else after class lets out on Thursday, she just goes right home. She goes home, has a warm shower, bundles herself up into the cosiest pyjamas she owns, and flops onto the sofa to fall asleep watching some nature documentary. It’s altogether a much better way to spend an afternoon.

Of course, her stomach wakes her up around six so she throws some spaghetti on to cook and prepares the instant meatballs in a saucer as well. Still beary eyed from just waking up, Amicia sort of just stands there, staring at them, enjoying the warmth from the stovetop. And they say a watched pot never boils, so she should probably move. But she can’t be bothered.

And she’s still standing there ten minutes later when a key hits the door. It’s not Arthur because today’s Thursday and there’s still like an hour, hour and a half, before she can expect him. Which means it’s Mélie and her heart kicks into high gear at just the thought.

When she shuffles into the room, eyes half-closed, shoulders slumped, and kicks the door closed behind her, fumbles with the lock before it turns, Amicia is struck – as usual – by the urge to grab her by the collar and kiss her senseless. She doesn’t. Just watches as Mélie’s head turns towards her, nose first.

“I could smell that from the bottom of the stairs,” she mumbles. “Enough for me?”

“Of course.”

“_Great_.” She crosses the room, kicks her shoes into her bedroom and adds, “Do I have time for a shower?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome.”

There’s plenty of time. Right as she hears the water stop running, Amicia has the food dished onto plates, sitting on the counter. She does up a third plate too, for Arthur, just in case, and tucks it into the oven.

“Don’t let me forget to put that plate away if Arthur doesn’t come home tonight,” she says, returning the cheese to the fridge.

Mélie hums. Turning to the island, Amicia fully intends on taking a plate and collapsing on the sofa, but she has to get past what Mélie’s wearing first. Her loose sleep shirt, the one that exposes her collarbones now and then, and these tiny little shorts that almost disappear above the hem of the shirt and leave all of Mélie’s leg available to stare at and be distracted by.

She huffs and when she remembers to speak, pick up a plate, she says, “What are we watching?”

“Something I don’t care about and can get up in the middle of, preferably.”

“No late night on the couch this evening?”

Mélie shakes her head. “No. I just want to sleep forever.”

“They call that _dying_.”

“No, not _death_, just… a prolonged sleep.”

“So a coma.”

“Sure. That sounds great. Can you arrange one?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Sighing, she drops onto the couch. “And that’s why you’re my best friend.”

“Because I’ll put you into a coma from which you may never wake?”

“Exactly.”

Amicia busies herself for a moment spreading the blanket across both their laps before she murmurs, “I’d miss you, you know.”

She can feel Mélie’s eyes on her but she dare not look up for fear of what sparkling void she could be sucked into. “Yeah? I’d miss you too.”

“Well,” she tells her plate, “good.”

They are both too exhausted from an already long week, too fixated on stuffing food into their demanding stomachs, to talk much after that. It’s just more nature documentaries on the screen, but it’s easier to watch that and let her mind empty than it is to stress about a point for conversation. Even when they finish eating they only sit some more. Amicia isn’t even really watching the television at this point, just… staring through it in some sort of vague approximation of brain-death.

When the show finishes she blinks her eyes, waking up from her trance, looks over at Mélie. She’s got her head tipped back, the entire column of her throat exposed, eyes closed, mouth half-open; asleep. Her plate is still on her lap, so Amicia scoops it up, decides to distract herself from more thoughts by doing the dishes.

How long can she go without properly thinking about things? Could she feasibly make it through her entire life without ever having a thought again? Specifically thoughts about Mélie, but since any topic could segue in thinking about her, it’s maybe safer to just stop thinking altogether.

Perhaps she could have her brain surgically removed. That’d help.

She stares at the dishwater; scrubs the plates slowly, deliberately. When they’re done and sitting on the rack to dry she stares at her fingers, all pruney on the ends from the hot water.

Amicia has no idea how long she stands there squinting at her fingertips and thinking about nothing, mind carefully blank. It could be two seconds, could be two years. Could be two whole lifetimes.

It’s more a feeling than anything else – her sixth sense; her _Mélie_ sense – that informs her she’s no longer alone in the kitchen with her un-thoughts. The fridge door opens, its cold light spills across her hands and then winks out again. When she turns, Mélie is leaning against the island, bottle of water in hand, ankles crossed in front of her.

She smiles, warm and crooked, and says, “You should’ve woken me. I would’ve helped with the dishes.” Her mouth tips up at the corners. The bottle cap cracks as she twists it.

Amicia’s eyes follow with this awful intensity as she brings the bottle to her lips.

She has to know what it’s like. The bottle knows what Mélie’s lips feel like. And that’s not fair. She _needs_ to know as well.

Before she even realises what she’s doing, Amicia has crossed the kitchen. Mélie quirks an eyebrow, lowers her bottle a little, but even when Amicia has surely, _definitely_, crossed into her personal space, she doesn’t speak. She stops, or _freezes_ might be more accurate, chews her bottom lip, studies Mélie’s expression carefully, but apart from a hint of confusion there’s nothing else to help her.

Other than the sound of her heart pounding furiously against her ribs, she can’t hear anything, either. Her gaze skips between each of Mélie’s eyes, wondering if the galaxies they contain can help her. But if they can, they don’t.

She takes a slow, deep breath.

(Her heartbeat doesn’t steady, but it does help.)

Lifting her right hand, she smooths it across Mélie’s cheek – doesn’t miss the way her breath catches – but before anything can be said to challenge her, dissuade her, _stop_ her (god forbid), she takes the last half-step and presses her lips carefully to Mélie’s.

The entire universe of sensory input narrows to that single connection; to the softness of her mouth, the way she tips forward as if by instinct alone. The _only_ thing that matters is Mélie, the only thing that _exists_ is Mélie; the television is still making sound, something hits the floor some vague distance away, the downstairs neighbours are banging at something and she hears _none of it_.

There is only _feeling_: the feeling of how warm she is, right up against Amicia’s front, how her nose brushes her cheek. On her top lip there’s a nick: her scar; Amicia sweeps a gentle thumb across the line higher up and, fuelled by the throbbing liquid heat in her belly, parts her lips, takes Mélie’s lower one between her teeth.

All of a sudden, her ability to experience senses expands, and it does so when Mélie makes this… this _sound_, a throaty moan and Amicia is struck by the thudding need to hear it over and over and _over_, as often as possible. How does she get that sound again?

Her other arm comes up around Mélie’s shoulder, fingers dancing across the skin at the back of her neck until they find hair to thread through. She’s got it done up in a messy, loose bun. It would be so easy to pull it free. Amicia isn’t quite sure why that seems like a thing that is very important, but she also doesn’t question it, tugs the band out and drops it on the floor.

Mélie’s hands are on her waist then and she feels them like she’s sat on the stovetop at max heat. Her fingertips press – _dig_ – into Amicia’s hips until she’s sure they will bruise. She doesn’t care; shuffles closer, guided by those hands, reeled closer and closer until there’s no way there’s even the slightest space between them.

She wants… god, she _wants_ – wants to kiss Mélie forever, wants this and nothing else, wants… wants something. Amicia’s mouth parts further, but no sooner has her tongue touched Mélie’s lip than she’s stopped.

Things she can feel now: the sharp swish of air as Mélie inhales, blood thundering in her ears, the strain of her lungs crying for more oxygen, a tingling in her lips, and this blooming, flooding warmth infusing every last cell of her being.

Things she can no longer feel: Mélie’s mouth. Because they’re not kissing anymore.

It takes her a moment to open her eyes, to register what happened: that Mélie pulled back.

They’re still close – so close – her arm hooked around Mélie’s neck ensures it, but they’re too far away, also. Mélie’s eyes – wide and dark – don’t leave her lips (despite having put at stop to anything involving them) and Amicia’s eyes drop away too, back to her mouth, mirroring her. They’re parted just a fraction and Amicia would like to be kissing them again right this second.

Now that she knows what it feels like, how warm and soft, the nick of the scar on her upper lip, she wants more. Wants to kiss her again, until their lungs ache from not breathing. Her gaze flicks lower, catches the bob of Mélie’s throat and Amicia wants to kiss there too, wants to find the place where her neck meets her clavicle. She wants. She _wants_. But Mélie’s mouth is moving, speaking, and she should probably be listening.

“Amicia,” she’s saying, voice a hoarse whisper, a fragile prayer. “Please don’t. Stop. Don’t do this to me, Amicia. Please.” Her eyes slide closed and her head falls forward, halts abruptily, jerkily, as if doing so is a monumental effort.

She brushes her thumb across Mélie’s cheek again, the fingers of her other hand curling against the back of her neck to keep her close. “Don’t do what?” Her voice comes out rough, needy. She wonders if Mélie can hear it.

“I can’t,” she says, shaking her head to the side, away from Amicia. When she turns back, opens her eyes again, they’re damp, filled with barely contained tears. Her bottom lip trembles from holding them back. “I can’t… Don’t do this,” she sighs and they’re still close enough that Amicia feels the exhale on her face.

Slowly, she pulls her other hand from the back of Mélie’s neck so that both palms cup her face. “Mélie…”

“I _can’t_,” she repeats, squeezing her eyes shut once more. “I can’t do this.” There’s a downward turn to her lips, pressed together into a sad curve; sad, or maybe frustrated. “I’ve spent _years_ trying not to be in love with you. I… please, Amicia, just… don’t do this. Please.”

The thrill of light that shoots through every nerve in her body at those words might set her on fire, but mostly she’s just pleased that her legs don’t give out. She smooths her fingers across Mélie’s cheeks, aware that she might be crying. “You…” her voice cracks down the middle. “You love me?”

Mélie still hasn’t opened her eyes, elects to ignore the hopeful waver Amicia is fucking _certain _her tone rings with. “Yeah. And I can’t be your college experiment. I…” Her jaw clenches. “I _can’t_.”

“You’re not.” The words fall from her mouth so fast she worries they don’t make sense. “You’re _not_,” she says again, just in case. “This isn’t an experiment.” Mélie’s eyes flick open again, but they’re narrowed, wary, disbelieving. “I want… I _need_ you. God… _you_, specifically, Mélie.” She opens her mouth to argue, to deny her words, whatever; Amicia won’t let her so she adds, “Zara was the experiment,” and Mélie’s teeth click together audibly. “She kissed me at the Christmas party and I thought it was you.” She slides her hand back across Mélie’s cheek, behind her ear to wind into her hair again. “I _wanted_ it to be you.” Twirling her fingers through the short hair at the nape of Mélie’s neck, she _marvels_ at all the little reactions it elicits; the fluttering of her eyelids, the sharp, stuttering inhale, the parting of her lips.

(The lips she’d like to go back to kissing now.)

Finally, Mélie murmurs, “You don’t mean that.”

“It was six months ago,” Amicia says flatly, “and I have literally thought about kissing you more times than I’ve drawn breath since. I mean it.”

Somehow, Mélie’s hands haven’t shifted from her waist since they landed there in the first place and now they _squeeze_. “You don’t mean it.” But she sounds moderately less certain now, a note of hope giving her away.

So Amicia draws her head down (closer, _closer_) until they’re a breath away and she’s going to go cross-eyed trying to look at her properly. “When you said you’d gone out with Anna a few times, I wished it was me,” she confesses softly. “When you mentioned a girl you had feelings for, I _hated_ her. When you had coffee with Maddie, I was _insanely_ jealous, and it was awful because you deserve to be happy. I had to talk to _your brother_ to realise that I’m hopelessly in love with you, okay? That’s how much I mean it.”

Mélie’s mouth drops open just slightly, her eyes are wide but her pupils are so blown that they’re also really dark, no whites around the outside, just pupil. Her gaze darts around Amicia’s face, lingers on her mouth. The moment of silence lasts long enough that Amicia’s heart kicks a little with panic rather than just _need_, and she starts to speak, to just damn well _tell_ Mélie to kiss her.

But then Mélie’s eyes dip again and she licks her lips (an action that produces an inexplicable lurch in Amicia’s abdomen). Amicia’s breath hitches and _that’s_ when Mélie ducks her head and kisses her. There’s a moment where Amicia is stunned, but Mélie’s fingers slip under the hem of her shirt, press into the skin there, pull her in at the waist and she makes that _sound_ again; a little bit longer and more desperate, bordering a keen.

Mélie _kisses_ her, mouth insistent on hers, parting her lips and kissing her with this… this sense of _finally_, as if this is every kiss she’s ever thought of poured into one. And it’s… it’s _so much_. Amicia hooks her arm more securely around her neck and holds on tight, fingers weaving into her hair, trying not to get swept away by the swirling in her stomach.

Guided by Mélie’s hands and instinct, she backs up until she’s being pressed against the refrigerator door. When her shoulders hit the metal, Mélie’s hands pushing her shirt higher, _she’s_ the one who makes that _sound_ – the low-in-the-throat moan. And it must surprise Mélie because she lets go of her mouth, leans back a fraction (but only a fraction because it’s all Amicia allows her) and her lips are curved in her crooked smile, eyes dark and twinkling in that celestial way that sets impossible liquids to surging through her veins.

“Why’d you stop?” she exhales.

“You…” she begins, voice rough and quiet. “That…”

Amicia doesn’t even pretend not to stare at her mouth this time. She hums, or tries to, what it actually sounds like is an impatient whine. “Just kiss me.” And she pulls her back in by the hold on her neck.

Mélie… ugh, she _doesn’t_. Not on her mouth, anyway. Instead, her lips brush under her jaw, trail – burning – along the skin to just below her ear and then down, down, _down_ her throat to the collar of her pyjamas (a top with cutesy glittery unicorns which feels _wildly_ inappropriate) and she… well it’s not very fair, but she sucks on the skin there, grazes with her teeth, soothes with her tongue. Amicia’s head drops against the fridge and she _moans_ again.

“That…” Mélie mumbles against her neck. “That’s _hot_.”

Amicia’s hand tightens in her hair, holds her close, guides her back to her mouth. At first all she’s really interested in is kissing her again, feeling the way she presses closer when Amicia nips at her lip, but then she… Well, a thought hits her and she abandons Mélie’s mouth, places a few careless kisses on her chin over the tail end of her scar and down to the point on her throat that she feels was overlooked on her own just before.

The skin there is so _warm_ and _soft_ and she can feel Mélie’s heartbeat skipping way too fast beneath. She leaves open-mouthed kisses first, gentle, careful; then teeth. And yeah, the moan that slips from Mélie then _is_ hot. Her hands tighten on Amicia’s sides, they’ve slipped higher, perilously high, holding her tight and the next sound she makes is needy, the same sort of whine from earlier.

Amicia gives in; goes back to her mouth. Feels the electric lines carved across her skin when Mélie’s fingers shift again, one hand sliding fully under her shirt, palm smooth and lifting heat from somewhere to the surface, nails digging into her shoulder blade. The other sits on her side, but her thumb twitches, spreading away for a better hold and it…

She makes another of those keening noises when Mélie’s thumb brushes the underside of her breast and she just… she _can’t_. With a huff – heavy from not paying attention to the necessity that is _breathing_ – she leans out. Mélie chases after her and, because she’s a weak-ass fool, Amicia surrenders to kissing her again.

Then something slams into the back of her mind and she pulls away, Mélie lets go of her bottom lip with a wet noise and stares, confused. For a second, Amicia forgets everything because the sight of Mélie’s blown pupils and swollen lips and the unconcealed _desire_ in her face is very distracting. But then she remembers.

“Wait.”

And Mélie immediately looks wary.

Amicia just laughs softly, pulls her closer and leaves a lingering kiss on her cheek. “No,” she breathes. “Not that. I just…” Her fingers tighten in Mélie’s hair again. “I’m okay if all you want to do is kiss or whatever, but I…” She huffs. “So, when I went home… whever that was, my parents, well, my _dad_, was like…” It’s too long a story so she tries to condense it, worries that it’ll come out all garbled and not making sense, but tries anyway. “Dad said something about wanting to give The Talk™ to someone at some point and how I never introduce them to anyone I’m seeing and I…” She can feel her face going red, throat closing over, determination to finish this train of thought fading.

Luckily, Mélie’s just _smiling_ at her, a beatific expression oozing from every pore like this is some kind of dream she’s had multiple times and never expected to see in reality. “If you’re asking if I’d go on a _date_ with you,” Mélie whispers, “the answer is _yes_.”

Amicia shakes her head, then realises what Mélie’s said and backtracks. “Oh. Yes. I’d like that. But not what I was going for. I…” Her nose scrunches up. “I don’t want to go on _a_ date, Mélie. I want to go on _all_ of them with you.” Her hold on Mélie contracts until they’re nearly nose to nose. “I…”

“Just say it.”

She swallows. “I want… Can I tell people you’re my girlfriend or…?”

Mélie’s smile widens, impossibly, it contains every ray of sunlight to ever exist. She tilts forward, kisses her softly, briefly – too briefly. “Duh. Long as the same goes the other way.”

“_God_, yes. _Please_.”

For a single overly fast heartbeat it’s just Mélie smiling at her, Amicia brushing her knuckles across her cheekbone to tuck hair behind an ear, the diminishing throb of whatever that hot liquid is demanding she kiss Mélie so hard the world spins. Then Mélie yawns; so mightily her jaw cracks and Amicia laughs, falling forward so the sound is muffled against her shoulder.

“You should go to bed.”

“It’s barely past seven.”

“You’re a grandma.”

“I am not.” Despite her complaints, Mélie does slip her hands from under Amicia’s shirt, straightens it out too. Then she uses one of her hands to tip Amicia’s chin just _so_ in order to kiss her again. “But I am tired.” She blinks. “And my feet are wet.”

It’s such a _bizarre_ thing to say that Amicia’s laughter redoubles. “What?”

They look down together. Puddling around their feet is a pool of water. Wearing her fluffy bunny slippers, Amicia hadn’t noticed the water. She follows its trail to an empty plastic bottle.

“Oh,” Mélie says. “I dropped that.”

Unable to resist, Amicia kisses her again, just quickly, around her laughter. “If you clean that up, I’ll put Arthur’s dinner in the fridge.”

“On it.”

It doesn’t take long to conceal the evidence of Mélie’s lapse in fine motor control, but it _does_ spark a new question: “Do we tell Arthur and Lucas?”

There’s only the tiniest flash of fear in Mélie’s eyes at that, so fleeting Amicia thinks she may have just imagined it. “I… can we give it a few days? I think… I think there are some things we should talk about first.”

“Like what?”

“Boundaries. We do live together.”

Amicia bobs her head. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’ll tell them whenever we’re ready. When we’re _both_ ready.”

Mélie smiles a relieved smile and kisses her cheek when she walks past. But to herself, Amicia wonders how long either of them can keep it from Arthur. After all, he lives with them too.

\--

She doesn’t see Mélie at all on Friday thanks to how their stupid timetables overlap. Mélie has an early start, up at six for an eight o’clock lecture and then she’s back after her life drawing class by four. Amicia has the opposite, a late start, doesn’t have to be at her first class until one, but her tutorial finishes at eight (with a truly awful two-hour gap in the middle) so she doesn’t usually get home until almost nine by which point Mélie – the grandma that she is – has already passed out.

Sure, she _could_ get up earlier to see Mélie before she leaves, but with classes that run so late, she’d be lucky to stay awake through just the first. And _sure_, Mélie could try and visit her in the two-hour gap between lecture and tute (despite the fact that her class finishes in the middle of that break), but that’s when Amicia does the readings for that class with Brad and Zara so it’s probably better that she’s _not_ distracted.

It’s a shitty Friday timetable.

But then it’s _Saturday_ and there are no clashing lectures to contend with.

Still, it’s almost nine when she finally crawls out of bed and the door to Mélie’s room is open so she sticks her head in on the way to the kitchen. She’s not there. A note is stuck to the fridge in Arthur’s blocky scrawl that says, ‘Out with Rodric and Lucas, back for dinner’ but that doesn’t explain where Mélie is.

Leaving the note where it is, she pulls the door open and stares at the mostly empty shelves. What’s she going to have for breakfast, huh? Leftover Chinese? The end of a loaf of garlic bread? The remaining three mouthfuls of Arthur’s orange juice?

She’s still staring absently at the bare interior when the front door opens. Leaning past the fridge reveals Mélie. And she’s got a cardboard tray in one hand and a paper bag held between her teeth so she can lock the door.

“Morning,” she says around the bag though it’s mostly garbled. She spits it out. “I went with Arthur to the bus stop to catch up with Rodric and Lucas before they went off. Thought I’d stop for breakfast since we have…” She waves at the fridge.

“Absolutely nothing,” Amicia finishes. “Should’ve gone shopping.”

Mélie shrugs, deposits the food on the bench. “We can do that later today, if you want.”

Groaning at the mere prospect of having to change out of her pyjamas and walk to the store, she shoves the door closed in a whoosh and whirls on the food. As it’s _that_ time of year, Mélie has brought home several autumn themed drinks, including the cinnamon tea that Amicia wishes would just be sold year-round. Closing her fingers around the cup she exhales deeply.

“Have I told you I love you today?”

“No,” Mélie says with a smile. “But it’s still sort of surreal to hear, honestly.”

Amicia takes a sip of her drink and smacks a warm kiss to her cheek. “Love you.” She leans into Mélie’s shoulder. “What’s in the bag?’

It takes her a moment to answer, “Muffins,” and her voice is a little dazed. “Choc-hazelnut, caramel cream and that god-awful vanilla bean with rasins one you like so much.”

“God,” she sighs. “You really are a blessing.”

“If you keep saying shit like that to me,” Mélie mumbles, “I’m gonna like… die, or something.”

“You did ask me to put you in a coma.”

“Oh, so you’re just keeping your promise.”

“That’s right.”

“I see.” She pulls a crispy part off the top of the chocolate muffin and pops it into her mouth. “I would like to double check something with you.”

Amicia hums, nose almost pressed to the lid of her tea.

There’s a pause before she speaks, though, and when Amicia looks around, her eyes are focused – glittering like they always do, just… thoughtfully intent. “When am I allowed to kiss you?”

Her lips turn up into a broad smile. “Whenever you want.”

“So all the time.”

“That would be impractical, I feel, but sure.”

Mélie inclines her head just a little, angling towards Amicia. “How about right now?”

She hums, feigning indecision. Her smile gives her away. “That would be ideal.” For the sake of convenience, she even tilts her chin up slightly to make it easier.

And Mélie obliges, dips slowly as if she expects Amicia to pull away at the last second. She doesn’t, gets impatient about waiting, instead, and rocks forward, closing the last of the distance. Her lips are warm and chocolatey and gentle. Maybe she really is unconvinced that this is real.

Amicia’s fingers find the loops on her jeans and pull her in, thumbs sweeping over the top of her belt to find the soft skin beneath. She intends it to be a reassuring gesture, but the way Mélie gasps into her mouth and leans further in, tilting until their hips are square against each other, suggests it’s not that. Or at least… not _only_ that.

She has to pull away; remembering how the water bottle had made a mess, Amicia decides she’d rather not risk a repeat scenario with hot tea. But she has to swallow, has to take a physical step back to prevent herself from succumbing to whatever it is in Mélie’s eyes – so dark and needy and _wow_. Otherwise she’d just… just… kiss her forever. (Not that this sounds awful in any way.)

Despite the distance, though, her fingers don’t quite give up on her belt loops. “Kiss me whenever you want,” she repeats.

Mélie’s throat bobs. “What about in public?”

“_Whenever_ you want,” she says a third time.

Her face turns serious, then. “I mean it, Amicia.” She brushes the backs of her knuckles across Amicia’s cheek, tucks hair behind an ear. “Everyone has boundaries. I want to know yours. You didn’t like Lucien being too affectionate in public.”

“I…” Her throat closes over and her teeth click together; she looks away. Honestly, she’d rather not think about Lucien.

The trouble is that Mélie can read it on her face. “What are you thinking?” Her hand finds Amicia’s, hesitates, and winds their fingers together, squeezing.

“I liked Lucien,” she eventually says. “I just… I don’t think I ever felt like _this_. He wasn’t… thoughtful; everything was for him.”

Mélie’s head tips to one side. “Which is why I’m asking this, Amicia. I don’t want… I don’t want to do something you’re not okay with.”

“You _haven’t_.”

“But I _might_. And I don’t want to.”

She doesn’t have an answer. But this is _Mélie_ so she sighs, casts her mind back, _thinks_ about it. And really, what was it she hadn’t liked about Lucien, what had rubbed her just the wrong way? His possessiveness, maybe? This idea that he always had to be seen to _be_ with her?

After a while she ventures, “You remember how Lucien broke up with Cici because he felt like she was using him as some sort of social marker?” Mélie bobs her head. “I think I felt a little of the same. Like when he touched me… it was to remind everyone that I was with _him_, not because he really wanted to; even if he _did_.” She wrinkles her nose. “The only time kissing him never felt like a performance was when there was no one to perform _for_.”

Now that she’s _really_ thinking about it, they maybe didn’t spend enough time just the two of them. Those are some of the _better_ recollections she has of him.

“I dunno how helpful that is, princess,” Mélie tells her flatly.

Her heart stutters at that last word which is weird; it never has before. “I know; I’m sorry. Just… don’t _try_ so hard.”

Mélie’s smile isn’t the most convincing, but it _is_ canted in that delightfully crooked way she loves so much. “Don’t try hard. Got it.”

Amicia sways sideways, bumps into her shoulder. “Jerk.”

But Mélie sticks her tongue out, crinkles up her nose, and _that’s_ one of those things that fills her with such overwhelming fondness: she doesn’t take herself too seriously. Doesn’t take _Amicia_ seriously, either. Under everything, they’re _friends_, and they can be stupid together.

And so that’s what blurts from her mouth in a garbled alphabet vomit: “We’re _friends_.”

“Yeah,” Mélie says, eye roll sort of a given. “Duh.”

“No… I mean…” Looking up from the muffins she grabs Mélie by the hem of her jacket. “We’re _friends_. We’ve always been friends. I wasn’t friends with Lucien, I was his _girlfriend_.”

“So?” Mélie shrugs. “We’re both.”

“Exactly. _Both_. Not one or the other. Everything doesn’t have to change just because I wanna kiss you all the time.”

Despite having done precisely that several times now, Mélie’s face still goes red and she rubs at the back of her neck, eyes rolled back to the ceiling in thought. And slowly, she seems to realise what Amicia means. “_Oh_…”

“Yeah.”

When her eyes drop again, meet Amicia’s, there’s that twinkling vastness glittering from them again. “Oh,” she breathes. “And… and you’re sure? Even in public?”

Amicia tugs on her jacket until she stumbles half a step closer. “_Whenever_ you want.” Behind her ribs, Amicia’s heart skips triple time, hoping that the same is true in reverse because she’d really like to kiss Mélie again right about now, so she asks, “And you? Aversion to PDA?”

Sliding her nose along Amicia’s until she’s so close they both have to shut their eyes to guard against a headache, Mélie whispers, “No way. Kiss me any time.”

Taking it as an invitation, Amicia crosses the last of the distance, delights in the satisfied sigh Mélie huffs into her mouth and decides now is as good a time as any to see what other things she can do to produce that sound again.

Her tea goes cold.

\--

As of this semester, their timetables clash so absolutely horridly that without some truly gymnastic wrangling, the three of them will see Lucas only once a week: on Saturdays.

“That’s unacceptable,” Arthur had said when he realised. But it had still taken them several weeks to figure out a solution. By which point is was basically Christmas.

Only _basically_, though.

Their solution: every Mondays, Amicia, Arthur and Mélie – variously – have either no classes at all (Amicia), just the one lecture at nine (Mélie), or two classes starting at eight and finishing by twelve (Arthur; his is frankly a shithouse schedule). Only Amicia has a class on Tuesdays and it’s not until the afternoon (it _is_, unfortunately, a three-hour workshop that finishes at seven). So what they do is pile into Amicia’s car, have dinner with Lucas and Laurentius, then Arthur will stay there (so he’s not sleeping on the couch with Hugo) and the girls will spend the night with the de Runes.

It works just fine the two times _before_ Amicia ambushes Mélie in their kitchen, but then after that… well… She’d said not _everything_ has to change, but _some_ things inevitably will.

“I’m sure you kids have better things to be doing than this,” Laurentius says to them over dinner. He and Lucas have cooked a delicious stew and those words are the first said since they sat down.

“Better than hanging out with our best friend and his cool grandpa?” Arthur asks around a mouthful. “Mm, nope, can’t think of anything.”

“It’s probably the only solid meal they have all week,” Lucas chimes in.

“Hey!” Mélie squawks. “Amicia cooked spaghetti just the other day.”

“What was the vegetable count?”

Mélie’s mouth works, Arthur laughs into his next forkful, and Amicia says, “Zero. I was tired.”

“Doesn’t count then.”

“Does Chinese count?” Arthur puts in. Lucas shakes his head. “Thai?” More head shaking. “Sushi?”

Lucas’ head doesn’t stop shaking at any point. “It’s all take out, Arthur. That’s not good for you.”

Laurentius waves a spoon at them, smiling. “You should try and get some more vegies in your diet. You won’t be twenty forever.”

“None of us are twenty, grandpa.”

He blinks, swishes his spoon between the twins. “I thought they were two years older than you?”

“Not for another nearly two months,” Mélie tells him.

“Ahh, and will you be coming around, then?”

“Probably.” Arthur lifts an eyebrow, swallows the last of what’s in his mouth and fixes Amicia with a very pointed look. “Unless something _dreadful_ happens, I dare say we’ll be staying with Amicia’s folks again.”

“Dreadful?” Lucas asks, face going a little pale. “Like what?”

But Arthur only shrugs, goes back to his food. “I dunno. The universe catching fire?”

The way he looks at _Amicia_ though tells her he’s specifically thinking about her. Maybe even the exact conversation they’d had a month or so ago now. She doesn’t meet his eyes.

Still, his answer placates Lucas who says, “That seems unlikely,” and reads nothing further into it.

Dinner with Lucas is nice, the problem is that in order to reach her parents’ place at a reasonable hour, they have to go pretty much right after that. And it _sucks_ because it’s not enough time to catch up with Lucas.

“How have you been?” Amicia asks him, following Mélie out the front door while Arthur starts on cleaning the dishes. “Don’t see enough of you, when are you moving closer?”

“I don’t know, Amicia,” he mumbles. “I’d like to see you guys more but…”

“I know. He’s been doing well though, and my parents are just nearby if he needs help.”

“Yeah.” His breath puffs in a great cloud before them. “Maybe next year.”

She offers him a fist bump. “I think Arthur would like to move in with you.”

“Why?” He bops her.

Laughing she tells him, “I think he’s sick of living with two girls. One of them his sister!”

He smiles with her. “Well… maybe next year.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” She drops down the last two steps and backs over to Mélie. “See you, Lucas.”

“See you Saturday.”

Getting to her parents’ place doesn’t take long, barely enough time for Mélie to fiddle with the radio dials and sing along to a single song. And it’s not until they get there, dash through the biting air to the door where Hugo is waiting to wrap them up in bear hugs, not until Robert has given them both a hug too and locked the door, that they realise something will be _different_.

“I tidied your room, Amicia, changed the sheets,” Beatrice calls from the kichen. “But if you’d like, I can make up the sofa, too.”

“It’s alright, mum, thanks. We’ll…” _Share_.

Her eyes go wide and when she turns to Mélie, her eyes are _also_ much rounder than usual, eyebrows hidden in her fringe. But she recovers first, too, a cheeky smile crawling across her face.

“It’s fine, Mrs de Rune,” Mélie finishes. “We don’t mind sharing.”

Beatrice pops her head around the wall and it must be quite the sight; the two of them staring at each other in various states of realisation. Clearly not knowing what to make of it, she asks, “And would you like some dessert? Or did Laurentius stuff you too full?”

“Sound…” Amicia’s voice cracks so she starts over. “Sounds great, mum. What’s dessert?”

“Marble cake.”

Mélie’s eyes light up and she’s the first to move away, though her gaze lingers on Amicia for several more beats after she starts walking. “Oh, Mrs de Rune,” she cackles, “you _are_ the best. You make all my fave things.”

And she has the fucking _nerve_ to wink at Amicia when she says it. The _audacity_. Consequently, Amicia misses whatever her mother says in response, too busy listening to her heart thudding in her ears and Mélie’s (likely intentional) double entendre fizzles through her veins. It’s hard enough not kissing her normally without _that_.

Honestly, she’s not sure how she survives the evening; just glad that the one time her father looked like he was about to bring up their teasing conversation about boys, he catches sight of the face Hugo pulls and starts laughing too hard to go on. (Mélie could _not_ be trusted with that conversation, she’s sure.)

She does behave, doesn’t make Amicia’s life (or her breathing) any harder than it has to be until her parents retire for the evening. (Beatrice with a sharp look at Hugo to remind him not to sit up late. But he’s, “nearly ten now, mum!” and not to be bossed around.)

“Come on, Hugo,” Amicia tells him. “While Mélie goes for a shower, you can tell me about the friends you’ve made at school.”

Not needing to be asked twice, he grabs her by the hand and drags her – nearly off-balance – up the stairs to his room. “There’s a great guy called Harry,” he tells her, pulling his bed sheets down and wriggling underneath. “He’s really cool. His parents got him a remote-control helicopter for his birthday!”

“That’s fancy. Have you flown it?”

Hair flips around his ears when he shakes his head. “No. He won’t let anyone else touch it. But I’ve seen him fly it! It goes so fast and it’s bright red!”

“Do you hang out at his place?”

“Yeah. Sometimes. His mum doesn’t have a job so she’s always there if we want to visit.”

“We? You have other friends?”

“Yeah! There’s Umar and Leah, too!” His face crumples. “Mum and dad haven’t met Leah.”

“Why?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t want them to tease me about kissing her.” When Hugo says ‘kissing’ he sticks his tongue out and shudders. “Gross.”

It takes a lot of restraint not to burst out laughing. “Oh, they wouldn’t do that. Mum and dad never teased me about Lucas or Arthur.”

“But they do _now_.”

She lifts a shoulder. “They just want to know what I’m up to, that I’m safe.”

His eyes shoot wide as saucers. “Is kissing _dangerous_?”

“No,” she does laugh now, but it fades when she thinks about kissing Mélie. She’d had zero awareness of her surroundings, if the bottle she’d dropped had been glass and shattered that could’ve ended badly. “Uh… it… _maybe_ it could be a bit dangerous,” she amends, “but it’s not likely.”

This does not seem to allay his fears. “Why would you want to kiss anyone if it could hurt you?”

“It’s just…” Her eyes turn automatically to his door, beyond which, not far away, is Mélie. “It makes you feel really good. Like… it’s a form of telling someone how much you care about them.”

He nods sagely, stretches out to pat her hand. “Amicia?”

“Hm?’

“If you kiss someone, I’ll still love you.”

Beaming at him, she leans over to give him a hug. “Glad to hear it.”

“Just don’t do it near me.”

“I promise.”

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Hugo.” She flips his light off and pulls the door to and dawdles going up the last of the stairs to her room. Hopefully this inescapable conversation goes smoothly.

God she hope it goes smoothly.

Her bedroom door is already open a slither, and through it she can see Mélie pacing past the end of her bed. Maybe she’s worried too. That… actually helps to know.

She pushes it open and when Mélie spins to cross the room again, she freezes. Amicia toes the door closed. They just… _stare_ at each other.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Mélie blurts.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Amicia…”

“_Mélie_.”

“I…”

She closes the space. “This is just another boundary,” she murmurs, taking one of Mélie’s hands in her own. “I’m… I’m okay with sharing.”

“You hesitated.”

Amicia’s lips twist with just a hint of self-deprecation. “Yeah, because now I know _why_ I feel all warm and swirly around you.”

“You… _huh_?”

“We’ve fallen asleep together before,” Amicia points out. “Same thing.”

“Yeah but _now_…”

“But nothing,” Amicia says decisively, reaching up a hand to sweep across her cheek. “Now I can kiss you goodnight. I can…” Her voice breaks and refuses to give life to any of the other things to cross her mind. Things like how tightly she could hold on, how great it would be to wake up next to her, how comforting it always is to have her _there_.

“And if you kiss me and things get…” Her face goes _bright_ crimson, finishing her thought better than she probably ever could with words.

“That’s what ‘stop’ is for, honey.”

The crimson deepens into something that manages to be redder than that. “_Honey_?”

“It just happened, sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Her eyebrow and mouth both twitch in the same way. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Amicia squeezes her hand, leans in, waits. And when Mélie sighs, nose bumping against hers, she knows it’s okay. Also, kissing her makes everything feel better.

“Let me shower,” she mumbles against Mélie’s mouth. She just hums, free hand finding her waist and drawing her in. But when her lips slide away from her mouth and down her throat, Amicia laughs. “Please. I won’t be long.”

Mélie places one more soft kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Okay. Now I’m good.”

“Can’t believe you held that in for so long.”

“Me _neither_.”

Before she can be caught up in her smile, her twinkling eyes, the warmth of her hands, Amicia slips away. Shower. Right, yes.

She has quite possibly never showered that fast in her life. Forgoing washing her hair, even, though it still comes out a little damp around the ends and she doesn’t bother to dry it.

When she steps back into her room, feeling not entirely put together since she threw her pyjamas on without much attention to detail, Mélie is sitting on the corner of her bed, knee bouncing so fast it’s almost vibrating and chewing on her bottom lip. It’s the click of her door closing that has her lurching from whatever world she was in, expression wide and startled until she sees Amicia and then her shoulders drop.

“Are you still sure about this?”

“Mélie…” Amicia perches beside her, slides her fingers around her wrist, runs their tips across her palm until she can thread them together. “You’re my best friend. We can share a bed.”

“Even now?”

She tilts her head. How to get this idea through to her properly? “When you told me you’re gay you panicked, right? Why was that again?”

“I thought you’d hate me for it.”

“Right. But we shared a bed heaps after that.” Mélie opens her mouth to argue. “You never took advantage of me.”

“I could have.”

“But you _didn’t_. And when did you realise you had feelings for me?”

She looks away. “Not long after that, I guess.”

Amicia’s breath catches in her throat. That’s _so_ long. God. Why did she not get her shit together sooner? Her voice wobbles when she says, “You didn’t do anything then, either. Nothing to make it uncomfortable. And you won’t now.”

“But I…” Her eyes meet Amicia’s and they’re _dark_ in a way that makes her stomach churn. Mélie swallows visibly before she whispers, “But I _want_ you. And that scares me.”

Her hold on Mélie’s hand contracts viciously. “I know. It scares me too.” There’s a flicker of surprise across Mélie’s face at her confession. “So… we’ll be careful. Alright?”

Sucking in a deep breath, she mutters, “Alright,” and it doesn’t sound sure, but her fingers are firm and her expression is determined and that’s what matters probably.

Using her hold on Mélie’s hand as leverage, she pulls her up the bed and only lets go to draw the blankets back. Mélie watches her settle in with this funny little smile and, when Amicia pats the mattress beside her, a fond eye roll. Amicia flicks the lamp off and wiggles over onto her side so she can stare at the outline of Mélie’s profile in the darkness.

“You know I can be a bit barnacle-y in my sleep,” she murmurs, “so just feel free to kick me if it’s too much, yeah?”

“I’m not going to kick you, princess, but thanks.”

Again, she shivers at the word. Maybe it’s just because of recent developments that she’s reacting weirdly? It’s hard to judge distance in the dark, but she leans forward until she can feel Mélie’s breath on her lips and says, “Call me that again.”

“What? Princess?”

Her heart gives a little stutter. “Yeah. Why do you call me that?”

“I’ve always called you that.”

“Yeah, but why?”

Her silhouette shifts in a shrug. “I dunno. Because you are?”

Amicia scoffs, wriggles down so she can settle closer. “Am not.”

She can hear the smile in Mélie’s voice when she says, “Whatever you say, princess.”

Only this time she doesn’t keep it to herself, she tilts her chin up and kisses her. Mélie sucks in a gasp before pressing back, but only gently, reserved, not willing to push. And that’s fine, Amicia won’t push either, just tucks her head into the space between Mélie’s shoulder and ear and closes her eyes.

She’s right, too; in the morning, waking up next to her is somehow _better_ than it was before.

\--

“Where’s my useless sister?”

“Getting snacks.”

“How long’s she been gone?”

“About twenty minutes, officer.”

From where he’s leaning on one flat palm over the kitchen island, Arthur doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Cute. If you don’t do something about her soon, I’m gonna just fucking tell her you have a giant lesbian crush on her.”

“I never said anything about being a lesbian, Arthur.”

“Don’t much care.”

She switches tack, sweeps over so she’s leaning towards him across the island from the other side. “And let me ask you one thing: if I _did_ say something to Mélie, there are two possible outcomes. The first, she rejects it out of hand and then we have to tip toe around each other forever and you’ll still _live_ with that. And second, she’s actually super into it and we make out. Which you _also_ have to live with.”

He blinks at her a few times, tips away, head tilted up. “Good points. I take it back. Do _not_ say anything to her until after I’ve worked out the details of moving in with Rodric.”

“You’re _leaving_ us?”

Arthur shrugs. “It’s not set in stone yet. His current roommate is kind of a dick, but it’d be a nice stepping stone for Lucas, too, since it’s closer to his place at the moment than this is. We’ll see.”

“You better be the one telling her this,” Amicia informs him flatly.

“Sure, yeah, whatever.”

“I mean it. I’m not gonna be the one to break it to her.”

As if on _cue_, the door swings in and Mélie asks, “Break what to me?”

Arthur slouches over so his forehead is on the counter top while Amicia laughs at him. “Why couldn’t you have walked in like thirty seconds earlier,” he mumbles into the fake granite.

Amicia pats him on the shoulder as she goes to help Mélie lift the bags of assorted snack foods up onto the bench for unpacking. “Because you’ll _still_ have to live with it, buddy.”

“For _now_.”

“Where are you going later?” Mélie asks, shoving unpopped corn packets inelegantly into the cupboard.

“Rodric and I have been talking logistics about moving in together,” he grumbles, still into the counter. “The two of us and Lucas.”

“Cool. Close by, I hope? I miss Lucas.”

“Yeah, close – Hey! Did you know already?”

Cackling, Mélie rocks back onto her haunches and laughs up at him, eyes crinkling in a truly gorgeous way. “You think Lucas can keep that a secret? He’s been telling _everyone_.”

Arthur smacks a fist into his other palm. “Ooh! I’m gonna lay into him later.”

“Just kick his ass at Codenames,” Mélie suggests, “you know he hates that.”

Lucas does, in fact, hate losing at Codenames – specifically. “Oi, you’re cheating,” he declares, tossing his phone dramatically onto the sofa beside him. “Stop it.”

“Look,” Arthur sing-songs, lifting his hands in a classic ‘what can you do’ gesture, “if Amicia is allowed to show Mélie her cards in Cluedo and Rodric’s obscene knowledge of obscure facts gives him an unfair leg-up in Balderdash, then I think I’m allowed to cheat a _little_ here.”

“It’s against the rules!”

“Is Mélie looking at Amicia’s cards not cheating?” Rodric wonders.

Lucas waves it away. “That’s just _them_.”

“Excuses.”

He huffs, slumps down in his seat. “I’m ready to play Catan now.”

But Rodric sways across the couch to bump Lucas in the shoulder and says, “Nah man, Mario Kart. There’s no cheating a blue shell.”

“Blue shells are their own _special_ kind of cheating,” Mélie says tartly. “And there’s an equally special place in hell for those who use them.”

Still, they plug it all together; four controllers only means one of them has to sit out and Arthur nominates himself. “My apology to Lucas,” he says.

And their Mario Kart: Keeping It Fair rule is whoever places in the lowest position has to hand the controls over to whoever didn’t drive in the last race and since they all kind of _suck_ at the game, it keeps it pretty fair on time spent playing. The whole thing is standard games’ night with them; Amicia loses the first round so Arthur tags in, then Mélie is out, then Arthur again, then Rodric.

_That’s_ about when it stops being standard games’ night.

Now, Amicia’s not the best at Mario Kart (in fact, the only one of them with any real skill is Rodric), but Mélie’s pretty okay. She and Arthur spend the first lap vying for first place and it’s Mélie who claims it. But she only holds it for two laps, then Arthur catches up and by the last lap he’s edged her out.

“You’re such an _asshole_,” Mélie snaps when he swerves to roll over a rainbow block she was driving at. And he drops it immediately: a green shell that spins her out of control. “Bitch.” It’s not like there are any AIs close enough to be a danger to her second-place spot, but it’s first that she’s after.

Meanwhile, Amicia is toddling along in about sixth place with Lucas just behind her. And then she grabs a block and it spins and lands on – what do you know – _blue shell_. Mélie has just caught back up to Arthur.

“Mélie,” she whispers, “drop back a bit.”

She gets a shocked look, but Mélie does as she says when she sees her item. Amicia fires.

By the time Arthur has noticed, the blue shell is already spinning about his character and smashing him into a great big explosion. “Who was _that_?” he shrieks as Mélie’s kart goes breezing past his crater.

“Thanks, babe,” Mélie laughs.

Amicia’s fingers _freeze_ on her controller, one is still applying forward momentum and her kart goes careening off a jump into the ocean. Rodric has snapped ramrod straight where he was slouched into the sofa, and Lucas is too caught up in how he can now overtake Amicia while she’s being dropped back onto the track to have heard what she said anyway.

Somehow, Arthur manages to wrangle second place away from the AI controlled Toad (a truly vicious beast) before he rounds on his sister. “_Babe_?” His eyes cut to Amicia, who is pretending to be focused on placing seventh so she doesn’t have to address his accusatory gaze or attempt to conceal her suddenly bright red face. “Explain yourselves.”

“It’s a term of affection, brother, dearest,” Mélie tells him sweetly. It’s too sweet to be anything other than sassy and the attitude does something to Amicia’s small intestine that she wishes it really _wouldn’t_ when they have company.

“Not the one you usually use,” he points out.

And yeah, yep, that’s the problem. Amicia is _used_ to being called ‘princess’ but ‘_babe_’? Oh no, that caught her well and truly off guard.

She passes Rodric her controller just as Lucas looks around, brows creased, and says, “What?”

“Okay,” says Mélie with a dramatic eye roll, “so maybe I upgraded the terms I use to tease her with.”

“When did _that_ happen?”

She lifts her shoulders up to her ears, glances at Amicia and says, “Ah, a week ago, give or take.” Clearly, she’s waiting for some sort of sign as to whether or not now is an okay time to tell them so Amicia smiles, nods, leans into her side a little more and hopes that’s enough without being _too_ much.

“Yeah? Did you have to file some kinda form for that?”

“Nah,” Mélie drawls. “She cornered me in the kitchen and kissed me. Don’t need forms for that.”

Amicia’s head drops back against the top of the sofa so she can see only the ceiling and not the probably dumbfounded expressions worn by any of her stupid friends. She feels Mélie slide their palms together, warm and solid and _good_; she sighs. When she looks back down at them – Lucas and Arthur spread out on the long side of the seat and Rodric sprawled out below them on the floor – their faces are all various shades of surprised.

Lucas is pure shock, wide eyes darting between the two of them as if he did _not_ see this coming (because he probably hadn’t). Rodric’s surprise is tempered by something softer that Amicia doesn’t understand. And Arthur… oh, _dear_ Arthur. He looks as though Mélie just pulled a rug out from under him.

“But…” he breathes. “But you said…”

Amicia huffs in his general direction. “I said that _if_ anything happened it would go one of two ways and _neither_ of them would be good for you. Not my fault you didn’t ask more questions.”

His jaw flails. Shoulders slumped, fingers slack on the controller, he doesn’t notice when Rodric starts up a new game and he’s left on the start line (they all are except for Rodric and the AIs). Finally, he manages to exhale, “You… and my _sister_… okay. But you better not be getting up to anything near me.”

“Says _you_,” Mélie drawls. “He who brought over _several_ people in assorted states of undress and _didn’t_ warn us what you’d be up to. I think you can take it.”

“I don’t need your brother watching me kiss you, Mélie.”

To her credit, Mélie’s face flushes darkly, proving that no matter what she says, she’d not like her brother to catch them out either.

Before Arthur gets a chance to tease her, though, Lucas puts in, “You guys do that?”

“Huh?”

His eyes skip from Mélie to Amicia and back. “You guys kiss each other?” It sounds so much like Hugo she almost starts laughing.

“Yeah,” Mélie says. “Don’t worry, it’s new.”

“Oh. Okay.” He fiddles with his controller, sends his kart into a nosedive off a cliff, blinks at the screen, just realising they’d started, then looks back at them. “You guys happy?”

Swelling approximately eight sizes in her chest, squishing her lungs out of the way and making her ribs creak as they expand to try and accommodate it, her heart thrums impossibly from just glancing over at Mélie. There’s something soft – so _achingly_ soft – in Mélie’s smile, too, those entire galaxies swirling in her eyes and it _fills_ her with light.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah, I am.”

And Mélie’s smile widens, it widens until it’s all-encompassing. “Me too,” she agrees.

“Well, good then,” Lucas says, he’s smiling too, more subdued, but pleased maybe. “I’m glad for you guys.” Definitely pleased.

Rodric crosses the finish line in first, the only one to still be playing. “Yeah,” he says, dropping his controller into his lap. “I’m happy it worked out for you Mélie. Guess you found the secret other solution.”

“I did.” Amicia clears her throat. “Okay. Amicia did.”

“Got any advice for me, now?”

“Yeah. Do nothing about it for like five years or something and then wait for them to kiss you.”

“Hilarious.”

But he does laugh, they all do. And even when Amicia tilts her weight further into Mélie’s side and presses a gentle, lingering kiss to her cheek – perhaps too close to her mouth for a situation involving Arthur, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

\--

Her phone rings at well after nine at night. Probably closer to ten. It has a nasty habit of doing that, actually, she should really start putting it on silent or something. The worst part tonight is that it doesn’t just disturb _her_, but when she jerks awake, Mélie’s arm slips down from around her middle to her hips and she turns her face into Amicia’s neck, tucking her nose further into the skin.

“Hnn,” she groans. “No.”

“It’s my mum,” Amicia says. She turns onto her side, facing away from Mélie so the light of the screen doesn’t annoy her. “Oh.”

“Do we gotta go to the hospital again?”

“No,” she sighs, swiping the ring tone to silent and dropping it back onto the side table. “Butt dial.”

She huffs a laugh and squeezes her arm around her middle. “Lame.”

“Sorry.”

“S’ok.”

Her phone does buzz again, but it’s muted and easy to ignore. Plus, it’s so warm wrapped up with Mélie, so easy to wriggle back around, smile when she kisses her briefly and fall back to sleep.

But then she wakes up in the morning and there’s a message from her mother that says, _sorry, new phone_. And it reminds her of something.

She calls her.

“Good morning,” her mother says, chipper, “this is Beatrice de Rune.”

“Mum.”

“Oh! Amicia! Your name didn’t come up.”

“Did you put my name into your new phone?”

“Ah. Yes, I didn’t do that, I will. What can I do for you this early on a Sunday?”

“Uh…” she begins, not sure how to broach the subject. Mélie flops onto the sofa beside her, sketchbook in hand, she leans it on her knees. “You remember how you said that you’d like to meet the people that I um…”

There’s a shuffle on the other end of the line and then her father saying, “Are you _dating_ someone?”

“Am I on speaker, mum?”

“Oh, yes, you are. Hang on.”

“No, no –” Robert gets cut off as the phone is switched to handheld mode.

“Sorry,” Beatrice sighs. “Getting a new phone always makes me feel technologically illiterate again.”

“That’s understandable, phones be like that.”

“Hm. Pretend your father isn’t a fool; what were you saying?” There’s an indignant honk – muffled, thankfully; Robert, no doubt.

She huffs a little. “If I wanted to introduce you to someone do you think you could be _normal_ about it. Maybe sometime when dad isn’t home.”

After a brief pause, Beatrice asks, “And is this someone…?”

“Someone I’m dating, mum, yes.”

Beside her, Mélie begins with, “_Technically_…”

“We had lunch at the park just the other day, Mélie,” she grumbles. “That’s a date.”

Robert shouts something she doesn’t understand, but Beatrice translates, “Your father agrees, that is a date.”

“_See_?”

It could be catalogued in some very important historical documents somewhere that Beatrice and Robert not being able to see Mélie’s Class-A eye roll is a massive crime. “Whatever, you’re lame.”

“Sure, but not every date has to be mega-exciting and earth-shattering or something.”

Mélie just hums.

“When are you bringing him over?” Beatrice asks, getting back to the matter at hand.

“Well…” she draws out, not correcting her mother’s assumption. “Classes kinda suck at the moment and exams are starting…”

Mélie leans right in and speaks into her phone, “She wants to know if today is too soon.”

Her mother laughs. “No, Mélie, today is not too soon. If that’s what works for him, then we’ll get something ready.”

“It doesn’t have to be fancy, mum.”

“Nonsense.” She clucks her tongue. “This is the first boy you’ve introduced us to since Lucien. I’m not going to feed him leftovers.”

Mélie’s hand drops heavily onto Amicia’s knee, fingers digging into the skin there. Knowing exactly what her wide-eyed hopefulness means, Amicia asks, “Can dad make the roast with that sorta spicy sauce?”

“Oh, geez, Amicia. Yes, I’m sure your father and I can manage that.”

“Thanks, mum. I’m gonna have to get that recipe off him.”

Beatrice just laughs. “See you later, hon.”

“Bye, mum,” and then louder, “See you, dad!” She hears his garbled response and even though she can’t make out the words, she can picture his precise expression.

This is either going to go very well, or it’s going to be an absolute _disaster_.

Hand still on her knee, Mélie uses it as a pivot to translate some of her weight in order to lean in and press a slow kiss to her mouth. Amicia drops her phone, shifts to make the angle easier for Mélie. She’d thought after a few days, the squirming heat would subside, but every time Mélie so much as _looks_ at her, it just bubbles higher, brighter, more insistent. It crawls beneath her skin and _demands_ more.

And it’s so easy to give in, to suck Mélie’s lip into her mouth, find the curve of her hip with one hand and pull her closer. Mélie’s hands sliding beneath her shirt still draw coils of shivering heat to the surface, too, make her twitch and arch her whole body closer.

Probably the only thing that stops her from ending up with Mélie in her lap, hands in her back pockets, is that Arthur opens the front door and they spring apart.

He takes one squinty-eyed look at them and waves a finger. “_No_. Keep that shit _out_ of public spaces. I swear to god…”

Turning a truly delicious shade of mortified red, Mélie shuffles back across the couch and returns to her sketching. Amicia just laughs and presses a kiss to the sliver of skin exposed at her collar.

“Stop it,” Arthur repeats. “I cannot _wait_ to move out.”

\--

“I know I’ve met your folks before, princess,” Mélie mumbles, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “But this is _different_.”

Aloud, Amicia says, “It’s not different,” but inside she’s just as knotted up with worry.

“I never told your parents I’m gay, Amicia.”

“They didn’t need to know.”

“They think you’re bring a _boy_ home,” she hisses.

“Yep, they sure do.”

“Not a very fair surprise for them, surely.”

“That’s what the chocolate is for.”

She can’t look at Mélie, isn’t sure she could withstand whatever expression of pure, unadulterated terror she’s wearing. But she does reach out and take her hand.

“You’re very calm about this,” Mélie mutters, squeezing the hand.

“Only on the outside.” Now she looks around. “We can go home? I won’t make you go in there.”

Mélie lifts a brow. “But you are?”

Sucking in a deep breath, she meet’s Mélie’s eyes, searches her face for a hint of what she wants to do. “Yes. I’m here now, they’ve cooked dinner, and if I don’t tell them right now, I might chicken out and never tell them.”

“Fine with me.”

“You say that _now_, but by the time we’re thirty my mother’s liable to try and set me up with every elegable bachelor she knows unless I convince her I’m not some sort of social hermit.”

Humming, Mélie admits, “That _does_ sound like her.”

Amicia squeezes her hand again. “You can wait in the car, if you like. I’ll get mum to pack up a dish of the roast for you.”

But when she leans across the console to kiss her cheek, Mélie turns, catches it with her mouth. “I’m not afraid of your mother,” she whispers. “Come on.”

Just watching Mélie inhale a few deep, steadying breaths is enough to set her heart to thrumming with that fond light again. Then they’re both climbing out of the car and heading up to the door. Mélie even knocks, but she looks like she’s getting ready to chew rocks.

As always, Hugo answers. “Amicia! And Mélie!” He gives them both quick hugs and then sticks his head past them, looks both ways across the lawn.

“You alright, Hugo?”

“Yeah… Mum said you were bringing a boy over and I told her you’d never do that because you know how I feel about it,” he explains, bright smile back in place. “And I’m right!”

“How you feel about…? _Boys_?” Mélie asks, brows pinching together.

Amicia laughs. “No. How he feels about _kissing_.”

“It’s gross,” Hugo confirms.

“You said you’d still love me if I did find someone to kiss,” she reminds him as he leads them back inside. She can’t stop her eyes from flicking over to Mélie, just quickly.

“Yep! But you promised you wouldn’t do it near me.”

“And I won’t.”

Mélie groans. “Seriously? You _made_ that promise?”

“To my nine-year-old little brother? You’re damn right, I did.”

“Nine and a half,” Hugo corrects her.

“Sorry.”

Skipping past Amicia so she can walk beside Hugo, Mélie asks, “What does ‘near you’ mean? Like, how close is that?”

“Anywhere I can see it,” he replies firmly.

“Oh…” Mélie sticks her hands in her pockets. “That’s not _so_ bad.”

“My parents live here, Mélie.”

“That’s worse. Why did you have to remind me?”

When they enter the dining room, Hugo drops back into a chair and goes back to what he’d been doing before they knocked; it looks like some sort of word puzzle. “My homework!” he tells them when they stop beside him.

“Man,” Mélie whines. “I wish _my_ homework was word searches.”

“What sort of homework do you have to do?” he asks, poring back over his papers.

“Sometimes I have to do writing, but just last week I had to go to a life drawing class for _four hours_.”

“What’s life drawing?”

Amicia _tsks_, but Mélie either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. The latter, judging by the awful, knowing smile spreading across her face.

“You have to stand in a room with a bunch of strangers and draw a naked guy who poses for you.”

Hugo looks up, eyes wide and expectant as if waiting for a punchline. And when it doesn’t come his whole face crinkles up. “_Ew_!”

“I _know,_ right?”

Leaving Mélie to deal with that, she sets off to the kitchen. There, she finds her mother leaning against one counter wearing a long-suffering smile as Robert dances around her fishing things from the oven, shuffling trays around, and telling her to go sit down somewhere, he’s got this. So naturally, Beatrice is the one to spot her first.

“Amicia!” She pushes away from the bench to give her a hug. “I thought you’d be a little longer or I would’ve given your father a tighter deadline.”

“Very funny,” Robert grouches. “It’s all _done_, just finishing touches. Gotta _wow_ this boy, eh?”

“You don’t have to worry so much about wow-factor,” Amicia tells him over Beatrice’s shoulder.

“Nonsense.” Beatrice holds her out at arms’ length, rubs a thumb across her cheek. “First impressions are key.”

“They _are_…” She lets that thought trail away, not sure how to really tell them that this will be more of a… _thousandth_ impression. What _was_ the first impression they had of Mélie anyway? She can’t even remember, it was so long ago. “Just…” She lifts both her hands to take the one of the mother’s still cupping her jaw and holds it fiercely. “Just…”

Normally when her heart is beating too fast it’s because Mélie is looking at her in that _way_ she has that makes her feel like she’s somehow the one responsible for hanging every star in the night sky. This feels a lot more like an anxiety attack. Any second now her capacity for breathing is going to give out from the iron bands strapped around her lungs.

Robert puts his tray down and hurries over, lays one of his hands over Amicia’s. “Hey. I promise I’ll behave.”

She shakes her head, tries to laugh. “No. That’s… It’s just… whatever you’re expecting, you’re wrong. And I…” Her throat clenches painfully. Maybe she should’ve turned the car around and put this off. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Sweetheart,” Robert says, smoothing his other hand over her hair. “If you’ve brought some heavily tattooed and pierced drummer boy home with you, I can’t promise I won’t make a _few_ jokes about ‘bad boys’, but we _love_ you.”

That makes her laugh, a sharp bark. “Alright, well it’s not _that_, so…”

Robert places his free hand on her shoulder, rubs gently. “Come on, then. I wanna meet him.” He takes a half step away from her and adds, “Last time you brought a boy over was Arthur, I think. You never dated him, right?”

“No, dad. Not Arthur.” He’s practically _vibrating_ and that worries her beyond words. “What’s he so excited about?”

Beatrice laughs, a tiny, tinkling thing. “He’s probably hoping this kid gives him some sort of hint as to whether or not you have a _type_ he can mock you for.”

“Oh. I’ll be pleased to disappoint him, then.”

Her father is the first one back into the dining room and his bouncing enthusiasm stops dead. “Oh, hey, Mélie. Didn’t know you’d be joining us, too.”

Amicia is fully expecting her to say something snappy like, ‘Too?’ with a dramatic glance around the room just to properly highlight how she’s the only person (other than Hugo) present. Instead what she does is offer a short wave and a smile that’s so tinted with fear and anxiety that it probably loses the right to be considered such. The scene freezes like that for several rapid heartbeats.

“Did you know,” Hugo begins, twisting around in his chair to lean his arms on the back rest, “Mélie has to draw _naked_ people for homework? How icky!”

His comment doesn’t so much as _break_ the tension, because it’s just a beat of confusion from her parents rather than anything else, but something in Mélie’s posture, her face, maybe what Amicia had said just a second ago must help something click. First with Beatrice. She turns slowly to Amicia, eyes lighting up with realisation and surprise, mouth falling open.

“You said you were bringing a _boy_ over,” her mother breathes.

She shakes her head, tries to offer a sarcastic smile but it probably just looks pained. “Actually, I said _someone_. You provided pronouns.”

Robert’s head whips around so fast she hears his neck crack. “You _what_?” Then he’s whirling back to Mélie. “_You_? You’re someone?”

Mélie rolls her lips together. “Uh… yeah?” Then, more firmly, “Yes.” Her fingers fiddle around on the back of the chair she’s standing beside and Amicia is struck by the _need_ to go over there and hold her hand. The distance between them feels too great.

Beatrice takes a few steps over to the table and sinks into the chair beside Hugo. She stares at the table cloth for a long, heavy few seconds and Amicia’s gut lurches uncomfortably, certain that this is going very, horribly wrong and it must prepare to regurgitate every meal she’s ever consumed. Amicia can’t look away from her.

But when she looks up, it’s not to condemn her, it’s to state, matter of factly, “I have questions.” Her eyes look from Amicia to Mélie and back, but she can’t read anything in them.

And she can’t speak. It’s Mélie who says, “Okay. Like what?”

“When did this happen?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

She blinks, clearly not expecting that. “All those times you stayed over…?”

Mélie shoots her a smile and it actually borders on genuine. “We’ve been friends for years, you know. _This_, this is new.”

“Define ‘this’.” That one’s not a question.

Knowing that precisely, Mélie purses her lips, deliberates. It looks like she’s using every ounce of self-control not to glance at Amicia. Or maybe she’s just building to something snarky. Before she can, Amicia puts in, “She’s my girlfriend, mum.” She has her mouth open to say more but her face goes red and her teeth click together.

Even from angled slightly behind Mélie, she can see how her crooked smile curls her lips. Then she does something that surprises Amicia completely: she pulls out the chair opposite Beatrice and sits down. “What do you really wanna ask me, Mrs de Rune?”

Her mother’s mouth works but no sound comes out. It’s like then thousand things are warring to be the thing spoken and they fall to a stalemate. In the end, it’s Robert who asks, voice soft and concerned, “Are you _sure_ about this?” and the emphasis on ‘sure’ could mean any of a million things, but in the end it’s also just _one_.

And no matter which of those million he intended, when Mélie looks around, crooks her elbow over the back of the chair and smiles at Amicia she knows with one hundred percent certainty that, yeah, she _is_ sure. Not of a great many things, really, but of Mélie? Yeah, she’s sure about that.

So she says, “Yes. I am,” without looking away from Mélie’s face and it’s worth it for the truly luminous way her smile widens. The kind of smile that stops her breathing and halts the whirling of galaxies and _screams_ for everyone in the vicinity to see: ‘I _love_ her’.

Her parents exchange a look that she neither glances up to try and interpret or cares about anyway. But whatever they conclude in that brief space, the rest of the evening isn’t horrible; it’s barely even strained.

Which is saying something for a dinner-with-the-parents that kicks off – properly – when Robert huffs and says, “Guess you were right; no point trying to make a good first impression when this is more like… impression number eight hundred and six.”

“Have you been keeping tally, Mr de Rune?” Mélie asks, back to being her usual droll now that she knows he’s not going to fillet her.

He waves his fork. “I lost track around the three hundred mark, I’m afraid.”

“Typical.”

It’s also saying something about an evening where her father _doesn’t_ behave and, in fact, _does_ deliver a rather pitiful rendition of the ‘don’t hurt my daughter’ speech. One wherein Mélie starts cackling and retorts, “Oh, _please_. My brother woke you up at like two in the morning to drive me to the hospital. You’re not gonna hurt me.”

And Robert’s eyes narrow as he glares at her, but she’s right. She’s right and they all know it. He sighs. “Yeah. That’s fair. I have nothing to threaten you with.”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. You don’t need to.”

“And you _shouldn’t_,” Amicia adds tartly.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “It’s a bit of an out-dated joke, huh.”

“Very,” Amicia and Beatrice say together.

“Also probably not the best way to guarantee your kid is happy,” Mélie puts in blithely. “Just saying.”

Robert starts laughing at that. “And _are_ you happy, mine kid?”

“Yes, dad,” she exhales, resigned to being asked this by _everyone_ apparently. At least the wink Mélie shoots her makes it sort of worth the mild embarrassment. “Very much.”

The evening isn’t a total loss, is the point. Not even when Hugo asks her later, quietly, just the two of them, “Do you kiss Mélie, Amicia? Is that what mummy meant before?”

She gives him a gentle nudge. “Yeah. I do.”

“Oh.”

“But not around you. Because I promised.”

He takes her hand, gives her a squishy hug goodbye. “That’s okay. I like Mélie,” he mumbles into her middle. “Bring her back? Okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

They don’t spend the night. Probably none of them are ready for that yet. But (hopefully) they’ll get there.

\--

She gets a text from her mother a few days later.

It reads: _Sorry if I was a bit standoffish when you brought Mélie over the other night. It was… a lot to wrap my head around. I love you_.

And that’s… it’s nice to hear.

Still, she has to know: _you don’t hate me right? or mélie?_

To her credit, Beatrice replies almost instantly, _No, honey! Of course not! You’ve had time to get used to this, that’s all. Give me a little bit to process_.

“That’s fair,” Mélie says, peering over her shoulder. “I had years to get used to being gay. And you had a panic attack for six months about it. Let her sift through it. She’ll be fine.”

(And it _is_.)

\--

“Are we still on for Christmas or have you ruined that by telling Amicia’s parents you like making out with her?”

Lucas and Rodric both look up from their plates with mixed reactions. Notably, Lucas looks like this is the first time he’s really considered that, by dating, they might have an actual impact on how he lives his life.

Rodric just leans closer to Amicia and says, “They have Christmas with your family every year?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. And then louder, tells Arthur, “You’re still invited, don’t worry.”

“I already sleep on the couch,” he reminds her. “And it’s not like they’ve got a guest room.”

“You can always stay with me and grandpa again,” Lucas offers. “That was kinda fun.”

“That’s true.” He stretches his legs out under the picnic table and leans back, whining with exaggerated thought. “Okay,” he decides after a moment, settling himself back down. “As long as your dad’s still gonna cook something amazing, I’m fine with that.”

“Your tolerance is truly astounding,” Mélie grumbles, jabbing him in the ribs.

“What can I say? I’m a miracle.”

“You’ll need a miracle if you’re going to the Christmas party and drink too much of whatever that brightly coloured poison is like you did last year,” Amicia tells him. “I doubt my parents will be too receptive of you arriving still a little drunk.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Fine, I won’t drink while I’m there.” He tips his chin at her. “Are you going?”

She shrugs. “I _am_ Zara’s designated driver again, yes.”

Dropping her head slowly to one side, Mélie gives her this fabulously sly smile. “This is the Zara who kissed you at the Christmas party _last_ year, yes?”

“Yeah,” she confirms warily. “Why?”

“Just gonna have to tag along and thank her for that.”

“_Ugh_.”

\--

Predictably, the Christmas party is a great big mess.

“Ey!” Zara screams when they arrive. (Her hair is a bright violet this month.) “Didn’t think you were coming!” She peers around Arthur and lifts an eyebrow at Lucas who’s not brave enough to wander off on his own. Mélie and Rodric have slipped off into the crowd, though, probably to find people to mock relentlessly. “Brought the whole family, huh?”

“Yeah, we always spend the week with Amicia’s folks for our birthday and Christmas,” he explains, accepting the cup she presses into his hands. “Just stopping here on the way through.”

“You said you needed a lift?” Amicia checks.

Zara’s lips roll together in a vain attempt to quash a smile. “I _did_,” she hedges.

“But now?”

“Now I have a lift.” She squishes her features up into an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Amicia tells her. “We’ll just stay for a bit and head out.” She slips an arm through Arthur’s elbow. “Whenever he’s ready.”

He claps a hand over his heart. “Aw, you’d stay for me?”

She shoots him a sweet smile. “At least until Lucas gets bored. If you’re not ready by then, we’ll leave you here.”

“Oof! Harsh.”

“Tough love, baby.”

His smile morphs then, slowly but surely, into something pointed and cheeky. “Not _me_.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, squeezes him closer to her side. “Shut your face.” Then she turns back to Zara, “Who’s your ride then?”

Her cheeks tint, darken, “Um… one of Brad’s friends… Paul.” She glances over her shoulder, lifts a finger and points him out.

As with Brad and all the other behemoth rugby playing pals, this guy is tall, broad of shoulder, barrel chested and physically imposing. He’s about the exact opposite of Arthur, actually, and his face tips to one side, lips pressing into a soft line of surprise but not displeasure. She gets the distinct impression that he had no idea about Zara’s meeting of rugby-guy Paul.

She must realise this because she turns back to him and grimaces. “Sorry, Arthur. I should’ve told you.”

He lifts his shoulders. “It’s alright. Exam time kinda sends everyone into hibernation.”

Her smile slips into something relieved. “Thanks.” She waves a hand over at where Brad and Paul are – just standing in a little clump with some other people – before she adds, hopefully, “Would you like to meet him?”

Amicia (and Lucas) both study the little collection of party-goers, most of them holding colourful bottles or plastic cups. She doesn’t recognise over half of them, just Brad and – vaguely – the faces of a few guys she’s seen around with him. At least, that is until she spots someone she can honestly say she’d never thought to see again in her entire life. (And maybe she wishes that were the case.)

With a sharp gasp, she squeezes Arthur’s elbow with her own. “Arthur,” she breathes, rotating him bodily to face the direction she’s looking. “It’s _Cici_.”

Arthur’s whole body tenses viciously, it draws her closer so they’re practically pressed as close as possible. And of course, their cosmic punishment is Cecile choosing that exact moment to flip her hair, turn her head just _so_, and catch sight of them Her eyes go comically wide for a split second, and then her face is falling into something… disappointed and hard, lips pursed into a thin line.

“You know Cici Cloutier?” Zara asks from somewhere far away.

“Yeah,” Arthur mutters.

“We went to high school together,” Amicia adds.

Zara looks at them, lifts a finger and wobbles it between them. “Which one of you dated her?”

“Me.” Arthur does _not_ sound happy about having to admit that. His faces drops further when Cecile slips her hand free from the guy who’s holding it and heads in their direction and he unbends his arm so they’re no longer linked together. “Great. She _would_.”

“I don’t want to be here,” Lucas whispers. Then he suits his words and scurries off. He has the right idea though, probably. She wishes she could go with him, maybe find Mélie instead of this.

Zara watches him go and asks quietly of Amicia, “Is this gonna go badly?”

“_Maybe_.”

She winces.

And she winces harder a second time when Cecile says, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Fancy it.” Arthur folds his arms. “New man of the hour?” he asks with a nod of his head towards the big rugby guy.

Tipping her head, wearing a vague little smile she replies: “We’ve been together a few weeks.”

He grunts. “What do you want, Cecile?”

Her hip pops out and she drops a fist on it. Following the motion is what draws Amicia’s attention to what she’s wearing: a skimpy little shimmery dress – it could be covered in fine sequin-esque scales, but she doesn’t care to inspect it too closely – the hem doesn’t get much past her waist, just long enough to cover what’s important. A corded belt cinches around middle of the dress, which is up high enough (and the belt is wide enough) that it pushes her breasts up and draws the eye, which is possibly the point judging by the low curve of the neckline which dips down below her collarbone.

It’s the sort of dress that is clearly designed to hold the eye and even invite it to wander. It’s intended to provoke a reaction. (And it _works_. There’s just so much _leg_.)

“What? A girl’s not allowed to catch up?”

“A _girl_ is,” Arthur grumbles. “You’re not the kind.”

Her lips curl but it’s not with a smile. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour. That’s nice.” Glinting cold in her eyes, a steely light flicks to life when she tips her head the other way to regard Amicia and her gaze _very_ deliberately skates over the places where they’re still very close to each other. “And I see you’re still together. Still denying it, too?”

“Ugh,” Amicia exhales. “We’re _not_ together, Cici.”

She tilts her nose up, stares at them over it, through her heavily mascara’d eyelashes. “Right. And yet here you are. Together.”

“Honestly, Cici,” Arthur sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know why you came over here. Just to dig up old grudges?”

Next thing Amicia knows, something warm and soft is leaning into her back. “Well, well, _well_.” It’s _Mélie_. And she slings one arm around her brother’s shoulder in the most casually obnoxious way possible. “If it isn’t Cici. Why are you here?”

“Why are _you_?” she counters.

“Socialising,” Mélie replies, and she almost sounds like she means it. At least, Cecile probably doesn’t know her well enough to detect the sarcasm. “Did you come here to pick a fight?”

“To have a good time,” she returns. “Guess that won’t be happening.” Dismissively, Cecile’s eyes flicker away from Mélie and her very ‘at home on the sofa eating marathoning reruns of something cheesy’ clothes; such a far cry from her own attire; she goes back to her almost-glaring at Amicia. Specifically, Amicia. “You always did manage to ruin everything.”

“I literally _don’t_ know what you mean,” Amicia huffs. “I never did _anything_ to you.”

She clucks her tongue. “You can’t be serious. After everything, you’re still going to stand here _with Arthur_ and tell me you did nothing?”

Arthur makes a funny high-pitched indignant noise. “You broke up with _me_.”

“And you’ve got the wrong twin,” Amicia adds, voice flat. Turning to Mélie, she forgets momentarily what she’d been going to say, gets caught up in the surprised sparkle in her eyes. “Just because you’re miserable, Cici,” she murmurs, “and you feel like you have to blame someone who isn’t you, doesn’t give you the right to be so nasty.” She takes Mélie’s hand. “Let’s go. Mum said she’s going to talk dad into making a proper brownie cake.”

“Your dad makes _brownie_ cakes,” Zara asked, voice a reverent whisper. “Got an extra seat for me?”

Laughing, she backs away, tugging Mélie as close to her side as she can (and doing her best to ignore the shimmering awe that glazes her face). “Sorry. Car only seats five.”

“Save me a slice?”

“Get real,” Arthur chuckles. “There’s not gonna be any leftovers.”

“Asshole.”

They leave Cecile with Zara and Amicia doesn’t have the chance to block out the question, “Amicia’s dating _Mélie_?” that gets asked. Doesn’t have to wonder who’s doing the asking either. Zara may not have been explicitly _told_ as much, but she’s also not as self-absorbed about that kind of thing. (And given the way Arthur had once said Cecile and some of her pals thought the twins were ‘losers’, she’s not at all shocked at the incredulous tone it’s asked in.)

In spite of the crowd, it doesn’t take them long to locate Lucas and Rodric: they’re the two hanging around the outside, just watching. Rodric chats to anyone who stops, but he makes no move to abandon Lucas, and for that, Amicia’s heart fills with unexpected fondness for him.

“No scene?” Lucas asks as they duck outside. “I’m impressed with her restraint.”

“Princess didn’t give her a chance.”

“I used to hate her,” Arthur whispers, his breath pluming before him. “I thought she broke me somehow.”

Taking his hand in her free one, Amicia asks, “And now?”

He hunches his shoulders. “I feel kind of… sad for her. She’s so caught up in this world where people are collectables to showcase how cool and high society you are that she misses all the good stuff.”

Mélie rolls her eyes, pulls Amicia into her side. “Can’t believe she’s still blaming you for everything.” She tips closer, mouth twitching in a smile that has Amicia’s heart kicking double time and her fingers itching to tug her the last little way so she can kiss her. “When she’s thirty-five and on her second divorce, she’ll be blaming you for her husband cheating.”

“_Two_ marriages,” Lucas asks, blinking. “I think you’re giving her a lot more credit. Doubt she’ll get past one.”

“I dunno.” Mélie shrugs. “She’s hot and guys are pretty dumb when it comes to that kinda thing. She could probably con a string of suckers.”

“Glad I’m not gonna be one of them,” Arthur breathes. And there’s something about the slouch to his shoulder and the lidded cast to his eyes that makes him look… truly _relaxed_. “You guys gotta tell me the truth about everyone I date, alright?”

Mélie snorts. “Uh huh.”

“I mean it. We’ve gotta stick together,” he insists.

Still holding his hand, but loosely now, Amicia gives it a squeeze. “We will. Always.”

Arthur lifts a finger and levels it at her then, a note of something serious in his tone when he says, “And that means you two aren’t allowed to break up. That’d throw a spanner in that plan.”

“Sure, yeah,” Mélie laughs. “We’ll get be sure to do that. Lucas, you wanna help with a five-year plan?”

“I know that’s sarcasm, Mélie,” he says, “but if you ever really mean it, then yes.”

“I don’t understand the importance of this thing with Cici,” Rodric chimes in.

“We’ll tell you about it on the drive,” Arthur promises. “It’s a _blast_. High school drama _and _espionage.”

“Ignore him. He’s a twit.”

“I dunno,” Rodric hums. “I’m already hooked.”

“Can we just get going now?” Lucas asks. “It’s _freezing_.”

“Yeah, sure, buddy.” Arthur pulls one of the back doors open and they all pile in, but before Amicia has a chance to skirt the car and climb in her side, Mélie is resting her hands on her hips, guiding her so _close_ and pressing a careful kiss to her mouth. It almost _stops_ being careful, except that Arthur rolls his window down and calls, “Oi! Stop that shit and let’s _go_.”

Mélie smiles against her lips, ignoring him. She bumps their noses together, sweeps a hand across Amicia’s cheek and she doesn’t even care that Mélie’s fingers are cold. “I love you,” Mélie whispers.

Humming, Amicia doesn’t bother meeting her eyes, lets her gaze linger on her lips. “Yeah. And I love you. Even with Arthur’s crap.”

She laughs at that. “He’s gonna be like that forever, you know.”

“Forever is a long time; maybe we can train him.”

Mélie’s laughter turns soft, hears the promise in her words. And this time, when she kisses her, it’s filled with the same feeling, the same assurance; it fills her chest with that warm light again and it’s easy to ignore the cold then, if not Arthur’s continued hollering.

“You guys are the _worst_,” he gripes when they finally drop into their seats and Amicia cranks up the heater.

“Yeah?”

“We love you, too, Arthur,” Amicia tells him sweetly.

“The _worst_,” he reiterates.

He’s wrong, of course, these are the best friends she’ll ever have. She’ll be turned to dust before she gives up on any of them.

Glancing at Mélie beside her, tangling their fingers together, caught by the endless stars in her eyes, Amicia knows she feels the same.


End file.
